Skip to main content

Full text of "Collegian quarterly"

See other formats 


SPRING 

1958 


OlLKMtTn^lLY. 


IN  THIS 

ISSUE:  The  Homesick  Parrot 


Winners  of  the  Writing  Contest 


JACK  AUGUST 

^^The  Finest  in  Sea  Food” 

NORTHAMPTON 


Hampshire  Motor  Sales  Inc. 

280  KING  STREET  • NORTHAMPTON,  MASS. 

HEADQUARTERS  and  SERVICING 

Lincoln  — Mercury 


FOR  THE  BEST  IN  FLOWERS 
FOR  EVERY  OCCASION 

MONTGOMERY'S 

NORTHAMPTON 


New  — Spacious 

UNIVERSITY  BARBER  SHOP 

STUDENT  UNION  BUILDING 


VOL.  XXI 


MAY,  1938 


NO.  3 


THE  QUARTERLY 

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF 
Thomas  Latham 


ASSOCIATE  EDITOR 
Robert  G.  Prentiss 


BUSINESS  MANAGER 
Joel  Wo  I Ison 

ADVERTISING  MANAGER 
Barry  Wieder 

EXCHANGE  7TANAGER 
Arnold  Sgan 


ART  EDITOR 
Dick  Robinson 


BUSINESS  ASSOCIATES 
Peter  Anderson 
Dorothy  Travers 
Marilyn  Sugarman 


LITERARY  STAFF 


Thomas  Dwyer 
Raymond  Kennedy 
James  Watson 


Carmen  Rezendes 
Judith  Morris 
Jack  Woodruf? 


Advisors:  Prof.  Leon  Barron 

Prof.  Lawrence  Dickinson 


The  Quarterly  is  a literary  magazine,  published  three  times  a year  by  the 
undergraduate  student  body  of  the  University  of  Massachusetts.  The  staff  members 
are  chosen  from  the  student  body  by  annual  competitions. 

All  contributions  are  welcome  and  are  chosen  sorely  on  the  basis  of  literary 
merit. 

The  Quarterl\’  office  is  in  the  Student  Lfnion. 


This  magazine  is  printed  by  Hamilton  I.  Newell,  Inc.,  334  Main  St.,  Amherst 


The  Quarterly  extends  its  deepest  congratulations  to 
the  winners  of  the  Writing  Contest. 


FIRST  GRAND  PRI7.F 

For  the  Best  Story 
Buck  Fcvi-r  by  Frank  Sousa 


FIRST  PRIZF  — ARTICLF 
James  Woodruff 


FIRST  PRIZE  — POETRY 

Conversations  of  An  Invalid 

by  John  Devine 


A $2  500  contest  is  being  held  for  novels  by  the  Thomas  Y.  Crowell  Co.  Open 
to  college  Students  only,  its  purpose  is  to  encourage  young  men  and  women  to  write 
worth-while  book-length  fiction. 

Any  undergraduate,  not  more  the  twenty-five  years  old,  is  eligible.  Manuscripts 
must  be  at  least  70,000  words  long  and  typed  double  spaced.  Deadline's  October  1, 
1958.  Submit  entries  to; 

Contest  Editor 

Thomas  Y.  Crowell  (iorp. 

432  Fourth  Avenue, 

New  York  16,  N.Y. 


2 


CONTENTS 


PROSE^ 

THE  ELIGHT  OE  THE  HOMESICK  PARROT  1 

Erank  Sousa 

THE  STRANGERS  13 

Rudy  Whittshirk 

THE  MEDDLERS  14 

Robert  Prentiss 

ROOMMATE  18 

Chuck  Gentry 

NOBODY  IN  SEARCH  OE  A STYLE  20 

Ole  Dad 

THE  AGE  OE  MATURITY  25 

Richard  McLeod 

THE  OLD  HAND  28 

HISTORY,  PHYSICS  AND  THE  EUTURE  34 

Valdis  Augstkalns 

POETRY— 

THE  COMMONS  12 

MY  SPRING  26 

STRANGE  PORT  33 

DEATH  36 


3 


The  Fligh 
Homesick 


I saw  the  crowd  of  people  first;  it  was 
silent;  and  a silent  crowd  makes  your 
wonder  why  they  are  silent.  Then  I 
noticed  they  vccre  all  looking  up  at 
somethin’.  Then  I saw  him.  He  was 
perched  up  about  forty  or  fifty  feet,  on 
the  root  or  eve,  or  whatever  you  call  it, 
of  the  Universitic’s  Chapel.  I didn't  re- 
cognize him  at  first;  he  had  no  beard 
and  no  long  hair.  He  had  a whiffle, 
cropped  short  and  yellow  like  the  worn 
stubble  of  a whisk  broom.  The  type  of 
haircut  that  ninety-nine  per-cent  of  the 
guys  on  campus  had.  Well  anyways, 
without  the  long  hair  and  the  beard,  I 
didn’t  recognize  him.  At  first,  that  is. 
But  recognize  him  or  not,  he  was 
perched  in  a mighty  precarious  position. 
A slip  an’  he’d  be  dead. 

1 saw  a guy  in  the  crowd  that  I 
knew,  Joe  Buddin,  and  1 asked  him 
what  the  scoop  was.  By  the  way,  it  was 
'Van  Strauss  on  the  roof.  1 also  a.sked 
Buddin  it  Von  was  up  to  his  nutty 
tricks  again. 

"Yup,”  Buddin  answered,  "Nutty  as 
a fruitcake.’’ 

or  Von  would  never  have  used  a 
cliche  like  Buddin  used.  Von  woulda 
said,  "Fruitier  than  a nut  cake.”  or 
somethin’  along  that  line;  but  never  a 
clich  e like  Buddin.  Von  Strauss  was  one 
of  these  guys,  a German  exchange  stu- 
dent, who  liked  to  call  himself  an  in- 
dic  idual.  Taught  me  to  be  one;  an  in- 
dividual that  is.  But  people  liked  to  call 
him  nutty.  Buddin  was  one  of  them. 

Well  anyways,  Buddin  told  me  that 


Von  was  gonna  jump.  That  he’d  been 
settin’  up  there  for  about  an  hour  or 
two.  Couple  of  guys  had  gone  to  a 
window  and  talked  to  him.  No  one 
risked  their  can  to  go  out  on  the  ledge 
with  him  though.  But  Von  didn’t  say 
anythin’.  Just  sat  there  repeatin’  Milton’s 
AERIOPAGITICA  and  other  stuff  they' 
couldn’t  make  out.  Then  Buddin  said 
that  he’d  be  cjuiet  as  hell  for  awhile  and 
then  start  repeatin’  allover  again.  Kinda 
a screvv'ed  up  deal. 

But  he  sure  looked  different  up  there, 
perched  among  the  gargoyles  and  all 
that  medieval  junk.  He  looked  like  a 
broken  winged  sparrow;  not  at  all  like 
the  Hans  Von  Strauss  I first  saw  on 
campus  four  years  ago. 

My  God,  1 remember  that  day  like  it 
was  yesterday.  I think  I told  you  before 
that  he  was  a German  exchange  student, 
but  I’m  not  sure.  Not  sure  I told  you, 
that  is.  Well  anyways,  the  first  time  I 
saw  him,  he  was  walkin’  across  campus 
with  these  long  strides;  his  long  yellow 
hair  was  flappin’  on  both  sides  of  his 
head  like  oriole  wings;  and  my  God; 
that  red  pointed  beard  he  had.  That  red 
pointed  beard  like  a cardinal’s  tail,  and 
the  flappin’  wings  of  hair,  no  wonder 
everyone  turned  and  looked.  He  couldn’t 
have  drawn  more  attention  if  he  had 
walked  through  the  campus  with  his  tea- 
pot out,  to  steal  an  expression  from  Car- 
son  McCullers.  Well  OF  Von  returned 
their  starin’  with  disdain  - like  they  were 
turds,  or  .somethin’.  After  I really  got  to 
know  him;  I really  got  to  know  that 


4 


of  the 
Parrot 


by  FRANK  SOUSA 


look  of  disdain.  My  God,  he  had  disdain 
for  anything  that  showed  you  were  a 
follower  of  the  herd.  He  had  disdain  for 
for  all  the  guys  wearin'  polished  chinos; 
disdain  for  everyone  wearin’  Bermudas; 
disdain  for  everyone  rushin'  and  gettin' 
these  short  haircuts  like  ninety-nine  per- 
cent of  the  guys  on  campus  had;  and 
disdain  for  American  professors,  who  he 
said  had  made  RUR  robots  out  of  every- 
one; he  also  had  disdain  for  the  robots 
and  he  use  to  say  to  them  that  if  prof 
so  and  so  cracked  wind  habitually  in 
class,  that  before  long  the  whole  class 
would  be  doin’  it,  as  it  was  the  thing  to 
do.  He  said  we  had  to  be  careful  that 
the  bigwig  bean  manufacturers  didn’t 
sneak  a couple  of  these  volcanic  profs  in 
on  Ua,  then  they'd  capture  America’s 
further  leaders,  and  then  the  followers, 
and  then  these  beanboys  would  conquer 
the  world,  cause  everyone  would  need 
their  product  like  drug  addicts,  or  some- 
thin’. All  because  a few  guys  had  to  do 
and  say  everything  their  profs  did  and 
said.  My  God,  ok  Von  was  a hot  ticket. 
In  a kind  of  hard  way:  as  you  can  see 
he  didn’t  paint  too  pretty  a picture.  He 
wasn't  this  nutty  all  the  time.  Sometimes 
he  was  as  serene  as  a mummer  bird  sit- 
tin'  ona  egg.  But  I hafta  use  these 
examples  to  show  what  he  was  against; 
akso  he  got  me  out  of  the  tide  of  just 
takin’  the  thoughts  and  the  words  of  the 
professors  as  law.  By  the  way,  he  was 
my  roommate;  I don’t  know  if  I told  you 
that.  And  My  God,  the  underwear  he 
used  to  wear,  some  were  redder  than  a 
matador’s  cape  in  the  settin'  .sun  and  one 
yet  had  a watchpocket  for  his  big  Ben 
and  they  said  'if  you  can  read  this,  you’re 
too  close’  on  them.  Anyways  that’s  un- 
important. But  maybe  you  get  the  point, 
that  he  was  as  finicky  as  a horse  in  a 
starter’s  gate,  and  as  individualistic  and 


outstandin’  as  a girl  with  three  boobs,  or 
.somethin’  like  that.  I hope  the  images 
and  that  stuff  I use  don’t  shock  you,  but 
I’m  usin’  them  because  you’ll  be  the  only 
one  readin’  this. 

Well,  anyways,  he  took  me  under  his 
wing  from  the  start.  Hell,  I was  just  a 
hayseed;  and  believed  everythin'  that  was 
tole  to  me.  These  professors  were  God 
to  me;  that  is  up  to  that  first  class  I had 
with  Von  Strauss.  It  was  a English  class, 
ya;  the  prof  had  just  got  done  askin’ 
some  nice  lookin’  girl,  real  built  like,  to 
repeat  the  ten  circles,  or  however  many 
there  are,  to  Dante's  Hell.  Well  anyways 
she  goofed,  only  know  about  six  of  the 
circles,  she  didn’t  even  know  who  wrote 
the  INFERNO:  my  God,  that  prof  blew 
his  stack;  but  it’s  true,  she  should  of 
known  because  I think  it  was  part  of  the 
title,  DANTE’S  INFERNO  or  some- 
thin’. Well  anyways,  the  prof  really 
started  bulldozin’  the  whole  class  with 
that  steel  blade  he  used  for  a tongue, 
and  the  whole  place  was  as  quiet  as  a 
rabbit  with  a hound  dog  sniffin’  around 
the  bush  he  was  hidin’  in;  well  anyway, 
oE  Von  starts  right  up,  without  raisin’ 
his  hand  or  anythin’,  like  everyone  else 
does,  and  says:  "Peterson”;  honest  to 
God,  "Peterson”  he  says,  not  Mr.  Peter- 
son, Professor  Peterson,  or  Doctor 
Peterson,  but  "Peterson”,  he  says  "Peter- 
son, I have  the  feeling  that  if  I had  a 
parrot,  and  kept  him  on  my  shoulder  all 
the  time,  and  then  after  a month  we 
took  one  of  your  exams,  that  the  parrott 
would  do  a hell  of  a lot  better  on  it, 
that  me.”  Honest  to  God,  he  said  a 'hel- 
leuva  lot’  and  he  said  all  that  other  stuff 
too.  Well  o’  Peterson  sort  of  sputtered 
like  a dud  firecracker  till  he  finally  blew 
his  ga.sket.  Guess  he  never  got  vulca- 
nized either  as  he  quit  that  very  day; 
told  the  Dean  that  he  was  here  to  teach. 


6 


not  to  take  a bunch  of  asinine  trash  from 
a foreigner.  He  had  said  Von  Strauss 
had  been  a Nazi,  and  under  the  Com- 
mies in  East  Germany,  and  that  his 
thinkin’  was  all  screwed  up.  Well  I 
think  Von  might  of  been  kicked  out  of 
school;  till  old  Peterson  saved  him  by 
stickin'  his  own  size  tweleve  in  his  own 
mouth,  by  tellin’  the  University  Presi- 
dent that  it  was  him  or  else  Von  Strauss, 
to  make  a choice,  one  or  the  other  had 
to  go.  Well  I guess  the  Proxy  must  of 
thought  this  was  some  kind  of  threat  or 
somethin’,  cause  he  told  Peterson  to 
shagass,  or  somethin’  to  that  effect. 

Well  to  hell  with  Peterson,  I want  to 
tell  you  about  my  friend  Von  Strauss. 

In  a way,  I kind  of  worshipped  him; 
because  he  took  me  out  of  the  hayseed 
bracket,  and  got  me  to  think  for  myselt. 
In  fact  I was  goin'  to  grow  a beard  to 
be  more  of  an  individual  like  him,  but 
he  told  me  that  wouldn’t  be  very  indivi- 
dualistic. 

Anyway,  his  tongue,  Von’s  I mean, 
would  snap  like  a bullwhip,  at  all  these 
profs  who  taught  all  this  memorization 
sort  of  stuff;  they  were  all  kinda  .scared 
of  him,  in  a way  that  is;  I guess  they 
didn’t  like  to  see  him  cornin’.  Some 
ol  the  profs  became  his  friend  though; 
well  that  is  as  much  of  a friend  as  you 
could  make  with  him;  he  was  kinda 
cold,  in  a way.  Well,  all  the  profs  weren’t 
afraid  of  him  and  this  one  Journalism 
teacher  used  to  turn  his  stupid  ear  to 
Von;  ya,  this  Stein  was  deaf  in  the  right 
ear.  But  he  didn’t  get  a chance  to  turn 
this  deaf  ear  all  the  time  as  Von  had  a 
helleuva  voice,  and  it  seemed  like  his 
words  were  like  hands  that  grabbed 
that  ol’  deaf  ear  and  swmng  Stein’s  head 
around  till  he  had  to  listen.  But  ol’ 
Stein  would  smile.  His  smile  would 
really  be  a broad  one,  real  personality. 


from  ear  to  ear;  his  big  horse  yellow 
teeth,  hugged  by  those  sticky  pink  gums. 
They  said  that  his  teeth  were  false,  had 
lost  them  in  a Nazi  concentration  camp 
or  somethin’,  you  know  how  these 
rumors  are.  Ya,  he  always  gave  this  big 
smile  to  Von.  But  his  eyes  always  nar- 
rowed, and  pinpointed  on  Von  all  the 
time  he  was  smilin’.  Kinda  a 'you’ll  get 
yours’  smile.  I’d  call  it. 

Stein  was  the  king  of  all  kings  as  far 
as  having  his  journalism  class  memorize 
things.  Memorize  page  after  page.  Man, 
you  could  fill  a roll  of  toilet  paper  with 
the  stuff  he  had  you  memorize  for  one 
class  period.  Memorize  or  fail.  The  class 
hated  his  guts.  But  even  more  than 
hatin’  his  guts,  they  were  afraid  of  him. 
There  w'as  just  somethin'  about  that  big 
horse  smile;  that  is,  the  smile  wit  the 
eyes  narrowing  and  dilating.  Guys  that 
would  never  think  of  cheatin’  in  their 
life  would  in  his  class;  just  too  much  to 
memorize;  they  hated  themselves,  but  it 
was  memorize  or  fail.  Old  Von  gave  the 
class  holy  hell,  too.  1 mean  for  cheatin’, 
but  mostly  for  not  thinkin’,  their  own 
thoughts  and  givin’  their  own  opinions. 
But  he  saw  some  good  in  their  cheatin’ 
as  many  used  their  owm  imaginations 
and  ingenuity  tor  the  first  time  in  their 
lives,  like  writin’  what  they  had  to 
memorize  in  different  places,  like  on 
their  white  bucks,  or  the  face  of  their 
watch  which  they  rigged  up  to  wind  out 
the  answers  on  its  face,  and  one  girl 
showed  real  ingenuity — she  had  the 
exam  memorizations  written  on  her 
thighs.  As  the  exam  progressed  she 
had  to  go  further  to  get  to  her  notes — 
well.  I'll  tell  you.  ol'  Von  and  1 didn’t 
have  much  on  our  papers,  but  it  was 
about  the  most  enjoyable  test  either  of 
us  ever  took.  Well,  aside  from  all  these 
ramifications  I seem  to  fall  into.  Von 


would  take  these  tests  that  said  to  list 
and  state,  and  repeat,  and  reiterate,  and 
echo  and  all  that  sort  of  crap,  and  he 
would  write  his  opinions  and  thoughts 
on  the  matter.  Flunked  them  though; 
ol  Stein  just  wasn’t  lookin’  for  that  sort 
of  answer,  I guess. 

In  class  when  Stein  used  to  press  all 
his  dogmatisms,  ol’  'Von  would  get  up 
and  really  do  the  number  on  ol’  Stein, 
and  he  would  argue  and  reason  and  give 
all  this  thoughts  and  far  fetched  stuff, 
theories,  and  that.  It  seemed  like  "Von’s 
heart  or  conscience  or  somethin’  was 
roarin'  like  a great  blast  furanace  at  these 
times.  Stein  would  just  look  at  him  and 
smile,  and  say,  "For  the  last  time,  Mr. 
Hans  Von  Strauss,  will  you  give  me 
Milton’s  AERIOPAGITCIA.”  or  "Mr. 
Hans  Von  Strauss,  would  point  out  the 
seven  points  and  differentiate  the  free 
American  press  system  from  the  dogma- 
tic Russian  press  with  its  implacable  con- 
trol from  above.” 

Von  would  start  this  montone  of  in- 
coherent, rhythmatic  jumblings  like  some 
sort  of  poetic  parrot  or  something. 
Stein  would  break  in,  cocking  his  smart 
ear  to  Von,  and  say,  "Speak  up,  Mr. 
Hans  Von  Strauss,  I can’t  make  sinse  of 
what  you  are  saying.” 

And  ol’  Von  wold  say,  "You  must  re- 
cognize the  ryhthm  of  the  answer  you 
seek,  sir.” 

And  Stein  would  smile  his  yellow 
smile  and  say,  "Mr.  Hans  Von  Strauss, 
I do  believe  you  are  joshing  me,”  and 
he  would  smile  his  big  yellow  smile,  real 
personality,  but  his  eyes  so  narrow  like 
1 told  you.  But  oF  Von  would  stare 
right  back,  eye  to  eye,  his  red  beard 
bristling  like  the  hair  on  an  Irish 
Setter’s  back. 

Ya,  Stein  and  oF  Von  usta  batter 
heads  like  a couple  ole  billie  goats  like 


I use  to  have  on  my  farm.  In  Indiana, 
that  is.  But  they  always  kept  kinda  calm, 
and  nice  to  each  other.  Stein  would  give 
his  big  oF  smile-real  personality;  and  ol’ 
Von  would  be  real  suave,  like  one  of 
these  foreign  diplomats — but  still,  that 
beard  would  bristle  like  the  nap  on  a 
rooster’s  neck,  and  oF  Stein’s  eyes  would 
narrow  while  he  smiled. 

Only  once  did  I think  Stein  would 
stop  smilin’;  his  smile  was  kinda  like  an 
inner  confidence  in  himself — real  calm. 
But  this  time  I think  Von  went  too  far. 
Well,  anyways,  one  day  in  class,  Stein, 
with  his  big  personality  smile,  asks  oF 
Von  to  give  the  seven  of  the  democratic 
free  press  over  the  dogmatic  Russian 
press  system.  He  had  only  asked  Von 
this  same  question  about  eight  times. 
Well,  you  could  of  knocked  me  over 
with  a limp  noodle,  when  from  where 
Von  sits  I hear  Stein’s  voice  givin’  back 
all  the  points  he  wanted — Von’s  tape 
recorder  was  playin’  back  a tape  he  had 
taken  of  Stein.  Well,  if  you  ask  me.  Von 
went  too  far — I know  oF  Stein  felt  about 
as  big  as  the  wart  on  the  small  toe 
of  a baby  mosquito.  Stein  kinda  quivered 
like  a blade  of  hay  caught  in  a whirlwind, 
or  somethin’.  He  started  out  to  call  Von 
a "Nietzschean’  ” or  somethin’  or  other, 
but  instead  finished  with  his  smile,  but 
his  eyes  were  narrower  than  most  of  the 
other  times.  He  seemed  awful  small  and 
frail  there,  just  a smilin’.  I coul  of 
belted  Von  for  this. 

Ya,  Von  was  kind  of  an  odd  ball,  but 
he  did  teach  me  to  think  for  myself. 

It  was  during  finals,  no  right  before 
finals  that  he  reached  his  high.  My  God, 
he  was  truculent.  He  had  to  pass  Stein’s 
Freedom  of  the  Press  or  .something,  and 
he  had  to  pass  because  he  wanted  to  get 
back  to  Germany  and  work  on  some  Free 
Press  or  somethin’,  and  he  had  to  pass. 


or  stay  another  year.  Well,  anyway,  I 
knew'  he  w'ouldn't  pass;  Stein  w’ould 
flunk  him  for  his  free  thinking,  which 
w'as  not  what  he  w'anted.  But  ok  Von 
gave  Stein  a harder  than  ever  as  it  got 
close  to  final  time.  We  used  to  sit  in 
Stein’s  class  and  he’d  tell  me  that  I was 
getting  conditioning  here  comparable  to 
that  given  in  Huxley's  BRAVE  NEW 
WORLD.  He’d  say  to  me,  ”Bc  an  in- 
dividual, think  for  yourself.  Don’t  be  a 
parrot,  or  you’ll  end  up  in  a cage.”  Then 
the  bell  would  ring  and  he’d  turn  to  me 
and  say,  "Ah,  the  bell,  Pavlov,  time  to 
salivate.”  My  god,  he  was  a riot.  In  a 
serious  sort  of  way. 

But  ok  Stein  wasn’t  the  only  one  that 
caught  it  from  Von.  He  had  a barrel 
reserved  for  the  browm  noses  and  the 
guys  who  used  to  do  this  rote  memory 
stuff.  He’d  say  to  them,  "I  hope  Stein 
doesn’t  stop  short,  Johnnie,  my  boy,  or 
they’ll  be  pulling  you  out  by  the  ankles,” 
or  "Careful,  Harry  lad,  if  Stein  takes  a 
sharp  corner  his  can  will  snap  off  your 


nose.”  Von  had  a lot  of  enemies.  Fought 
too  many  at  once.  They  say  he  even 
challenged  one  prof  to  a duel  his  year. 
Don’t  get  me  WTong — Von  wasn’t  per- 
fect, and  he  admitted  it.  He  said  that 
Goethe  once  said,  "I’ve  never  heard  of 
a crime  towards  which  I can  not  trace 
in  myself  at  least  some  small  inclina- 
tion.” In  other  words  he  knew'  he  wasn’t 
perfect,  but  his  brain  w'asn’t  alw'ays  'out 
to  lunch’  like  the  rest  of  the  mentally 
bankrupt  floatin’  around. 

But  as  it  got  closer  to  final  time,  he 
started  pacing  the  floor,  swearin’  to  him- 
self, at  Stein.  Callin’  him  all  sorts  of 
names;  swear  words  I had  never  thought 
had  been  invented  yet.  But  out  of  all 
the  swearin’  and  name  callin’  he  did  at 
Stein,  in  our  room,  not  once  did  I hear 
him  call  Stein  a dirty  European  Jew,  like 
a couple  other  dinks  in  the  class  did.  He 
was  quite  an  individual.  But  he  w'as 
kinda  shook.  He  used  to  go  off  by  him- 
self, or  lock  himself  in  the  privy.  I used 
to  holler  in  to  him,  "Have  you  fallen 


9 


in,  Von?” — you  know,  to  try  and  get 
him  to  laugh.  I’d  hear  him  in  there 
sometimes  mutter’  and  swearin’  to  him- 
self; then  he’d  come  out  and  talk  to  me 
for  hours  on  end  on  being  an  individual 
and  about  thinking  for  myself  and  that 
sort  of  stuff  he  was  really  stuck  on;  and 
I could  see  in  his  face  that  the  inside 
of  him  was  roaring  like  a great  hearth 
again.  Then  after  awhile  his  eyes  would 
get  sort  of  dull  and  glazed,  and  he’d  say 
to  me,  "You’re  my  last  hope.”  It  used 
to  hit  me  kind  of  funny  because  his  eyes 
always  seemed  to  be  burning  and  when 
he  looked  at  me  with  his  eyes  havin’  this 
dull  gray  ash  look,  like  a burned  out 
butt,  it  used  to  scare  me.  Really  scare  the 
hell  right  out  fo  me.  But  he  finally 
talked  me — I mean  reasoned  me — into 
thinkin’  and  presentin’  my  own  thoughts 
on  Stein’s  final  exam,  and  in  life,  too. 
Anyway,  he  taught  me  that;  to  stand 
alone,  and  don’t  be  scared  of  any  one. 
And  to  be  different,  and  an  individual 
and  that  .sort  of  crap,  which  I really 
believe  in.  Honest.  Honest,  I believe  so 
much  in  it.  I’d  die  to  preserve  it.  Well, 
this  isn’t  my  story.  Back  to  Von. 

I remember  the  day  of  Stein’s  final; 
ol  Von  was  really  sweatin’  buckets,  to 
use  a cliche.  Me,  too,  for  that  matter, 
I had  made  up  my  mind  to  put  my  think- 
ing on  my  paper,  not  Stein’s. 

But  I tell  you,  I nearly  dumped  a load 
in  my  britches  when  I saw  the  exam — 
FONAL  EXAM  FREEDOM  OF  THE 
PRESS  JACOB  STEIN  1.)  LIST  THE 
SEVEN  POINTS,  AND  ONLY  THE 
SEVEN  POINTS,  THAT  ELEVATED 
THE  PEOPLE-OWNED,  FREE,  PRESS 
OF  DEMOCRATIC  AMERICA  OVER 
THE  FACIST,  NAZI  AND  COMMU- 
NISTIC PRESSES  THAT  ARE  IM- 
PLACABLY CONTROLLED  FROM 
ABOVE. 


2.)  WRITE  MILTON’S  AERIOPAGI- 
TICA  AND  STATE  THE  MAIN 
POINTS  AS  UNDERLINED  IN 
CLASS.  My  god,  Em  not  slingin’  it  to 
you,  it  really  was  a straight  memoriza- 
tion test,  askin’  us  to  repeat  every  cruddy 
point  of  claptrap  he  had  fed  us.  I was 
really  surprised  that  I wasn’t  tempted  to 
feed  it  back  to  him  at  all,  as  I had 
memorized  it  at  the  start  of  the  year. 
But  I had  decided  to  put  down  my  own 
thinkin’  like  Von  reasoned  to  me.  Also, 
I became  a little  firmer  and  burned  in 
the  stomach,  and  really  tasted  bitter  as 
hell  in  the  mouth,  as  I saw  the  ink 
cover  and  white  bucks  come  into  sight 
below  the  desks,  and  all  the  guys  all 
winding  their  watches,  and  the  girl  with 
the  white  thighs  liftin’  her  dress  to  read; 
I was  really  zipped  at  Stein,  in  fact,  I 
only  looked  twice  at  the  little  blond’s 
thighs.  I saw  Stein  lookin  at  Von 
through  his  narrow  eyes,  his  big  cold 
smile  playin’  on  him.  It  was  a helleuva 
test.  My  god  was. 

You  might  know,  Stein  was  the  only 
prof  on  the  campus  that  had  to  post  his 
marks  on  a bulletin  board  for  all  the 
world  to  see.  My  name  was  second,  with 
a big  flunk  on  it.  I felt  lower  than  a 
grasshopper’s  knee.  Von  had  done  all 
right;  Stein  had  him  on  the  top  of  the 
paper,  with  a big  A beside  his  name. 
I was  glad  for  him,  as  he  really  was  bril- 
liant, and  wanted  to  get  back  to  Ger- 
many awful  bad  and  help  his  country; 
it  was  still  quite  a mess,  after  the  Nazi’s 
and  Commies;  and  maybe  even  us,  a 
little. 

Well,  anyways,  it  was  when  I was 
wanderin’  off  kind  of  in  a daze,  after 
seeing  my  invitation  from  Stein  to  spend 
another  year  at  the  university,  that  I saw 
Von.  Like  I told  ya,  I didn’t  recognize 
him  without  the  beard  and  with  the 


10 


short  hair.  He  just  kept  starin’  at  me, 
but  I noticed  Stein  to  my  left.  His  eyes 
narrowed,  but  there  wasn't  that  big, 
horsetoothed  yellow  smile.  But  I’m  sure 
there  was  a slight  tremor  of  a smile 
flickering.  Von  just  kept  starin’  at  him; 
yet  starin'  through  him.  Just  sittin’  there- 
on the  edge  lookin’  down.  Once  or  twice 
he  worked  himself  to  the  edge  of  the 
buildin’  but  each  time  edged  back,  never 
takin'  his  eyes  off  Stein.  There  was 
always  that  hidden  twich  of  a smile  on 
Stein’s  face  every  time  that  Von  worked 
himself  to  the  edge.  I guess  I was  the 
only  one  that  saw  it — if  it  was  there, 
that  is. 

All  the  time  I watched  Von  there,  I 
knew'  he  w'asn't  gonna  jump,  he  was  too 
much  of  a individual  and  thinker  to  do 
anything  that  silly.  And  rollin'  off  the 
edge  of  a building  like  a common 
suicide  was  out  of  the  question.  Yet, 
every  time  he  edged  to  edge,  I w'as 
scared.  Maybe  it  w'as  the  wind.  I sw'ear 
I heard  .somethin’  like  a furance  door 
bangin’  like  it  was  caught  in  the  wind 
and  the  fire  w'as  out  and  the  w'ind 
banged  the  door  from  side  to  side, 
kinda  hollow  and  empty.  Kinda  lonely. 
But  it  musta  been  the  w'ind  catchin’  up 
amongst  the  bells  in  the  chapel,  or 
somethin’. 

Well,  anyways.  Von  edged  to  the 
edge  again,  and  I saw'  him  peerin’  down 
at  Stein  again,  so  I got  behind  Stein  to 
attract  Von’s  attention.  It  was  about  this 
time  I sees  that  Stein  had  this  big  yellow 
mockin’  smile.  Well,  anyw'ays.  Von  seen 
me  behind  Stein,  and  he  kinda  smiles. 
It  must  have  been  at  me  cause  he  sure 
w'ouldn’t  smile  at  him.  Then  Von 
worked  himself  away  from  the  edge.  He 
stood  up  and  started  climbing  up  the 
Chapel’s  steeple,  like  one  of  these  native 
boys  you  see  climbing  a cocoanut  tree. 


And  this  clangin'  like  an  empty  hearth, 
with  its  door  clangin'  in  the  w'ind,  had 
stopped,  and  it’s  quiet  and  still  as  holy- 
hell.  Well,  ol'  Von  w'orked  his  way  to 
a little  jutty  that  w'as  most  of  the  w'ay 
up  to  the  top  of  the  steeple.  He  really 
looked  young  and  baby  faced,  but  very 
serious,  without  the  beard,  and  in  his 
w'hitfle.  Kinda  scared  me  to  see  how' 
young  he  looked.  Well,  Von  stood  up  on 
the  jutty,  and  he  looks  dow'n  at  Stein, 
still  kinda  smilin’  like.  Stein  was  smilin' 
back  through  his  narrow  eyes.  Well,  ol' 
Von,  he  folds  over  his  fingers,  except 
for  the  middle  one,  w'hich  he  keeps 
straight  out  from  his  hand,  and  pointed 
up  into  the  air;  you  know'  w'hat  I mean. 
He  does  this  lookin’  straight  at  Stein, 
and  then,  my  Christ,  he  jumped;  his 
arms  spread  w'ide,  his  fingers  closed,  ex- 
cept his  middle  finger  w'hich  is  out  stiff 
and  pointin’  up.  He  did  a perfect  sw'an 
dive.  It  W'as  graceful  and  beautiful;  I 
think  I W'as  hypnotized  or  somethin’. 
But  he  hit  w'ith  a terrible  squash  kind 
of  a noise.  His  head  burst  like  someone 
had  dropped  a pumpkin  from  some 
height,  smashing  into  different  pieces, 
larger,  larger  pieces  of  the  shell  here 
and  there. 

Well,  I could  never  figure  w'hy  ol’ 
Von  jumped.  To  say  I w'as  shook  up  for 
one  hell  of  a long  time,  would  be  the 
understatement  of  the  year.  One  thing 
I’ll  always  remember  and  love  him  for 
will  be  that  he  taught  me  to  stand  alone. 
Ya,  he  taught  me  to  love  the  people  or 
say  pissonem,  but  nec-er  just  to  tolerate. 

Oh,  about  poor  ol'  Stein,  he  must  of 
felt  a lot  deeper  about  Von  than  I 
thought.  He  certainly  looked  like  a 
beaten  man.  Never  gave  that  big  smile 
again.  The  big  one.  With  real  per- 
sonality. And  the  narrow  eyes. 


11 


The  Commons 

by  W.  C.  VINAL 


Feeder 
of  students. 
Receiving  end 
for 

gripes, 

groans, 

'Oh,  no’s!” 
and 

"Not,  again’s !” 
Conveyer 
of  vittles 
to 

bigger- tlian-stomach 
eyes. 

And  after — 
a yawning, 
empty  cavern, 
awaiting 
the  next 
famine. 


CENTRAL  RESTAURANT 

-FEATURING  TASTY- 

PIZZAS  • GRINDERS  • SPAGHETTI 


12 


THE  STRANGERS 


by  RUDY 

It  had  just  stopped  raining.  The  tires 
ot  a ear  hissed  on  the  main  street  of  a 
small  New  England  city.  A girl  sat  star- 
ing out  the  rain-streaked  window  into  the 
darkness.  All  day  she  had  seen  hundreds 
of  faces  in  the  cities  and  towns  that  had 
passed  by.  Somehow  they  all  seemed  to 
be  the  same — the  same  people  doing  the 
the  same  things.  It  was  nine  o'clock  and 
there  were  still  many  people  on  the 
streets.  Some  carried  folded  umbrellas, 
some  wore  raincoats,  and  some  just  wore 
light  coats  to  keep  out  the  chill  of  late 
autumn. 

She  saw  a man  standing  on  a corner 
waiting  for  the  light  to  change.  The 
green  light  flashed  yellow  through  the 
little  droplets  of  rain  on  the  windshield; 
the  yellow  turned  red.  Her  eyes  did  not 
leave  the  man  as  the  car  pulled  up  to  the 
stop  line.  He  held  a cigarette  to  his  lips 
and  let  the  smoke  stream  out  of  his 
mouth.  She  had  seen  him  many  times  be- 
fore— in  many  different  places,  but  this 
time  she  could  not  look  away.  The  man 
at  her  side  was  forgotten.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  eternal  loneliness  of  a man  in  the 
street  on  a cold  night. 

"What’s  so  interesting  out  there.^  ’ 
asked  the  driver.  "You’ve  been  staring 
out  that  window  since  Boston.” 

She  looked  at  him  but  did  not  reply. 
Out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye  she  saw  the 
man  cross  the  street.  For  a second  she 
thought  that  he  had  looked  at  her. 

The  light  changed  and  a gentle  hand 
pressed  her  back  against  the  seat.  As  the 
car  moved  forward  into  the  darkness,  she 
forgot  the  man  in  the  street.  She  looked 
at  the  driver  next  to  her.  He  seemed  to 
be  another  man — as  if  she  had  never  seen 
him  before. 

In  a while,  tiny  drops  of  rain  began  to 


WITTSHIRK 

show  on  the  windshield.  Again  she 
thought  of  the  man  she  had  seen.  She 
stared  at  the  ever-increasing  wall  ot  rain, 
wondering  what  he  was  doing  and  where 
he  would  spend  the  night.  She  felt  lone- 
ly and  tired.  Why  was  this  stranger  both- 
ering her  so  much?  She  sighed  aloud. 

"Did  you  say  something?”  asked  her 
fiance. 

The  man  had  just  stepped  into  a bar. 
He  sat  down  at  a table  and  ordered  a 
glass  of  beer.  A puddle  ot  water  was 
forming  at  his  feet.  He  watched  the 
drops  falling  from  his  shoes.  Something 
was  bothering  him — something  that  had 
just  happened.  He  could  not  remember. 

He  had  started  on  his  second  beer 
when  the  TV  show  ended.  He  finished 
his  beer  and  walked  to  the  door.  It  was 
raining  hard.  A cold  wind  blew  through 
his  hair  and  lashed  the  rain  into  his  face. 
He  shrugged  and  walked  on. 

The  tires  of  a passing  car  sprayed 
water  from  a puddle  onto  the  sidewalk. 
Then  he  remembered  the  girl  in  the  car. 
It  seemed  funny  for  her  to  stare  at  him 
like  that.  He  had  never  seen  her  before — 
or  had  he?  She  was  pretty,  he  remem- 
bered, but  her  face  had  seemed  lonely. 
For  a moment  he  thought  it  had  been 
longing.  Somehow  people  in  passing  cars 
always  seemed  to  be  looking  for  some- 
thing. Maybe  they  were  just  watching. 

He  was  lying  in  bed  on  his  side,  listen- 
ing to  the  splash  of  the  rain.  A cool 
breeze  from  the  open  window  ruffled  his 
hair.  Somewhere  in  the  night  was  a girl 
he  would  never  see  again. 

He  flicked  the  butt  of  his  cigarette  out 
the  window.  It  cut  a glowing  arc  into  the 
rain  and  hissed  for  a second  in  a puddle. 

Much  later  he  was  asleep. 

13 


THE  MEDDLERS 

by  ROBERT  G.  PRENTISS 


"Hands,  " they  called  the  old  man,  be- 
cause he  couldn't  speak,  had  to  make 
signs  with  his  fingers.  He  didn't  like  that 
name,  tried  to  tell  them  so,  but  the  other 
inmates  only  giggled. 

I'orty-five  years  ago,  while  a school- 
teacher up  in  Rutland,  he  had  cut  out  his 
tongue.  Now  he  was  sane,  a trustee,  and 
the  nice  people  at  the  sanatorium  across 
the  street  let  him  sit  in  the  park  during 
the  day. 

The  old  man  liked  to  sit  there  in  shad- 
ows cast  where  an  old  maple  tree  bowed 
over  the  park  bench.  He  liked  to  muss 
freshly  raked  gravel  underneath  for  peb- 
bles, throw  them  into  the  little  fishpond 
nearby.  He’d  drop  one  in.  It  would 
splash.  Around  it  would  form  a ripple,  a 
bigger  one,  and  more  ripples,  each  ripple 
bigger  than  the  one  before,  all  from  a 
little  pebble  tossed  in  the  pond. 

Sometimes  people  strolling  in  the  park 
would  pause,  stop  under  the  shadows  cast 
by  the  maple  tree  and  watch  the  splash 
from  the  little  pebble  swell  across  the 
fishpond  to  its  farthest  borders.  Some- 
times they  would  even  sit  down  on  the 
bench  next  to  the  old  man’s,  rest  there 
and  chatter  a spell.  The  old  man  would 
listen  but  make  no  gesture. 

One  late  afternoon  two  ladies  met  in 
the  park  and  sat  in  the  shade.  They  saw 
the  old  man  toss  pebbles  into  the  fish- 
pond, watched  the  splashes,  ripple  over 
ripple,  lap  one  another. 

"You  know'.  Autumn  is  the  prettiest 
season  of  the  year,”  cooed  one  woman. 


clasping  her  hands  in  ecstasy. 

"It  is,"  agreed  the  other,  "My  doctor 
said  nothing  w'ould  cure  my  allergy  bet- 
ter than  exercise,  plenty  of  fresh  air,  and 
simply  enjoying  the  beauty  of  nature.  " 

"He  sounds  charming.  What’s  his 
name.^’’ 

"Govreau,  Doctor  Walter  Govreau.  ” 

"Oh,  I know'  him.  Why  he's  the  one 
w'ho  treated  the  Allison  youngster,  you 
know,  the  one  involved  in  the  car  ac- 
cident last  week.” 

"My,  my,  Emma,  that’s  news  to  me. 
But  say,  wasn’t  it  a shame,  a disgrace  the 
w'ay  that  Allison  boy  behaved.  They  say 
he  was  drinking  at  the  time.” 

"Yes,  and  there  was  a girl  in  the  car 
too,  you  know'.  ” Emma  used  her  "you 
knows”  freely,  tw'itching  her  left  shoul- 
der each  time. 

"But  the  Gazette  didn't  mention  a 
w'ord  about  a girl.” 

"Well,  you  know',  Marlene,  how'  .some 
families  try  to  cover  things  up.  She  w'as 
under  age.” 

"Yes,  that  explains  it.  But  my  w'ord, 
how'  shocking!  Who  w'as  she.^” 

"Betty  Martin.” 

"Betty  Martin!”  Marlene  snorted  in- 
credulously. 

"Yes,  yes,  it  w'as  her  alright.  You 
know,  good  thing  she  w'asn’t  hurt.  That 
boy  w'ould  have  been  suffering  for  his 
sins  now  instead  of  later,”  observed  the 
fire-and-brimstone  Emma. 

The  old  man  w'inced.  His  past  sw'ept 
before  him.  Trembling,  he  raised  his 


14 


hand.  But  the  women  didn’t  notice,  and 
he  reluctantly  withdrew  it.  There  was  no 
one  else  to  blame.  He  alone  had  chosen 
this  ledge  of  Purgatory,  his  atonement, 
he  thought  to  himself. 

"You  know,  I didn’t  believe  it  myself 
at  first,  ” continued  Emma,  "But  when 
Mrs.  Main  told  me  she  heard  it  straight 
from  Mrs.  Gardner,  you  know,  she's  a 
\ery  dose  confidante  of  the  doctor’s 
wife — well — I just  knew'  it  had  to  be  so.’’ 

"It  must  be  then.  Isn't  it  disgusting?" 

"To  be  expected,  I suppose.  You 
know,  Marlene,  their  family  name  never 
w'as  too  clean.  " 

"True,  true.  Betty's  brother  ran  off  and 
joined  the  Navy  a w'hile  back,  and  her 
older  sister  was  alw'ays  a wild  one  too. 
Say,  that  reminds  me,  you  haven’t  heard 
the  latest  about  Betty’s  sister,  Carolyn, 
have  you?  But  maybe  I shouldn't  say  any- 
thing. ” 

"No,  no!  Marlene  Ridgew'ay,  you  tell 
me. 

"Well,  Emma,  do  you  know  that 
young  accountant,  Everett  Murdock,  Car- 
olyn married  a couple  months  ago?  ” 

"Yes,  yes.  Go  ahead.  " 

The  old  man  shifted  uneasily.  The 
gravel  crunched  under  his  feet.  He 
flipped  another  pebble  into  the  fishpond, 
watched  the  ripples  grow'  and  grow. 

"Well,  now',  sometimes  he  has  to  go 
on  business  trips  dow'n  to  Boston  and  last 
weekend  he  w-as  gone,  and — oh — " Mar- 
lene Ridgew'ay  placed  a hand  on  her  sag- 
ging breasts,  and  sighed,  a long,  draw'n- 
out  sigh.  She  had  once  taken  a corre- 
spondence course  in  dramatics. 

"Tell  me!  Keep  going." 

"Really,  it’s  so  despicable.  Anyw'ay, 
Mrs.  Biffins  told  me  this  morning — she 
lives  next  door  to  the  Murdocks.” 

"Yes,  yes,  I know'.  Go  on. 

"Well,  she  said  that  Sunday  night 


about  eleven,  a tall  man  knocked  on  the 
Murdock’s  door,  and  when  Carolyn  an- 
swered, he  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  they 
embraced  right  there  in  the  doorw'ay,  and 
then  she  pulled  him  inside.  ” 

"Who  W'as  he?  Who  w'as  he?"  Emma 
piped  up  breathlessly,  leaning  back 
against  the  bench  for  support.  Her  baby 
blue  hankie  w'as  all  gnarled  up  in  her 
w'rinkled  fingers,  and  her  fingers  twinged 
w'ith  excitement,  and  they  tw'isted  up  her 
baby  blue  hankie  even  more. 

"Mrs.  Biffins  couldn’t  see,  she  said,  be- 
cause it  was  so  dark  out,  ” Marlene  con- 
tinued. "But  there  was  loud  laughing, 
and  the  record  player  w'as  playing,  and 
they  pulled  dow'n  all  the  shades,  and 
then,  about  twelve,  one  o’clock —or — 
maybe  it  w'as  tw'O — ’ 

"Yes?  Yes?”  Emma  cut  in  impatiently. 

"Well,  come  closer,  dearie,  .so  I can 
tell  you.  ” 

The  tw'o  w'omen  huddled  close  togeth- 
er. Marlene  bent  Emma’s  head,  his.sed  in 
her  ear. 

"They  shut  off  all  the  lights!” 

Emma  put  her  hands  to  her  mouth. 
"Ohhhhhhh!" 

The  old  man  listened,  heard  the  stage 
whisper.  He  didn’t  believe  them,  but 
w'hat  could  he  say? 

"And  that  isn’t  all,”  added  Marlene. 
"About  five-thirty  in  the  morning  when 
it  still  was  dark,  Mrs.  Biffins  says  they 
turned  on  the  lights  again.  A little  while 
later,  they  hugged  each  other  in  the  door- 
way for  almost  five  minutes,  and  then  he 
left,  and  the  husband  came  home  about 
an  hour  later.  ” 

"Oh,  just  missed  him.  How'  terrible! 
Marlene,  I wonder  how  Mr.  Murdock 
would  feel  if  he  only  knew.  You  know', 
he’s  such  a w'onderful  per.son.  Isn't  it  dis- 
gusting the  things  some  w'omen  do  be- 
hind their  husbands’  backs.” 


15 


"Yes,  I have  to  agree  with  you.  I nev- 
er did  approve  of  Carolyn,  but  I didn't 
think  she’d  go  that  far.’’ 

"Well,  it  had  to  happen  sooner  or  lat- 
er. Carolyn  never  was  any  good.  It  must 
run  in  the  family.  Her  mother  was  rather 
loose,  you  know'.  I pity  the  poor  man. 
Oooh,  but  just  w'ait  until  I tell  Mrs. 
Sw'eeney.  She'll  be  so  surprised.  She 
know's  a w'oman  who  just  happens  to 
know  Mrs.  Whately  w'ho  has  a cousin 
that  works  for  Mr.  Murdock  as  his  sec- 
retary.” 

It  started  to  rain.  The  old  man  left. 
The  nice  people  didn’t  like  to  see  him 
get  w'et.  Soon  the  ripples  from  his  little 
pebbles  w'ould  become  giant  ones  in  the 
rainstorm. 

A week  passed  before  the  old  man 
came  to  the  park  again.  He  had  been  sick 
in  bed  w'ith  Asiatic  flu.  The  one  w'ho  ex- 
amined him  had  not  been  as  nice  as  the 
others.  He  had  to  take  nasty  medicine. 

Under  the  shade  of  the  maple  tree  he 
found  Mrs.  Ridgew'ay. 

"We  all  missed  you  here  in  the  park,” 
she  said. 

The  old  man  nodded  his  head  but 
made  no  other  sign. 

"Yoo-hoo!  Marlene!  Marlene  Ridge- 
w'ay! Wait  for  me.  ” 

Short  and  pulpy,  Mrs.  Bithns  waddled 
over.  "How  are  you?  It’s  nice  and  shady 
here.” 

"Yes.  Too  bad  all  the  maple  leaves  are 
so  brow'n  now'.  They’re  all  w'ithering.” 
"That’s  life,  Marlene.  Here  today, 
gone  tomorrow.  Who  was  it — the  poet 
who  said  something  about  how  we  re  all 
players,  we  cross  the  stage,  say  our  little 
piece,  then  fade  away.” 

"William  Shakespeare,  dearie.” 

"Oh,  yes,  that’s  right.  Say,  Marlene, 

I didn’t  tell  you  about  the  Murdocks 
breaking  up,  did  I ?” 


"No,  but  I heard  about  it  already.  It’s 
buzzing  all  over  town.  Tut,  tut,  such  a 
scandal.’’ 

"Isn’t  it  though?”  Mrs.  Bithns  said. 
"Well,  eventually,  Mr.  Murdock  had 
to  hnd  out  the  kind  of  w'oman  he  mar- 
ried. But  how'  did  he  discover  Carolyn’s 
deceit  in  the  hrst  place?  ” 

"Honestly,  no  one  seems  to  know.  I 
w'as  trying  to  hnd  out  myself,  not  that  it’s 
any  of  my  business.  He  just  up  and  .said 
he  was  starting  divorce  proceedings 
against  her,  and  that  was  it.  Someone 
must  have  told  him,  I guess.” 

"How  did  she  take  it,  anyway?”  asked 
Marlene.  "Emma  didn’t  tell  me.” 

"She  took  it  really  hard  at  hrst.  Of 
course,  she  was  pretending  all  the  time. 
You  got  to  give  Mr.  Murdock  credit  for 
that.  A woman’s  tears  don’t  trick  him. 
And  do  you  know'  w'hat  she  had  the  gall 
to  do?” 

"No,  W'hat?" 

The  old  man  grew'  restless.  He  flung 
more  pebbles  into  the  pond.  He  w'anted 
to  hght  back,  strike  out  at  something — 
anything ! 

'Well,  after  Mr.  Murdock  accused  her 
point-blank  about  her  secret  lover  visit- 
ing her  that  Sunday  night,  she  strung  up 
a cock-and-bull  story  about  it  being  her 
brother,  the  sailor.  She  claimed  his  ship 
had  docked  in  Boston  to  refuel,  he  w'as 
out  on  twenty-four  liberty,  and  he  had 
just  dropped  in  to  say  hello.  ” 

"Oh,  no,”  Marlene  gasped.  "Denying 
the  truth  is  bad  enough,  but  to  lie  like 
that  on  top  of  it.  My  word!” 

"Yes,  and  from  w'hat  I hear,  she’s  still 
sticking  to  the  story.  She’s  wicked.” 

"She  certainly  is,”  Marlene  resounded, 
"A  wicked,  wicked  w'oman!” 

The  old  man  listened,  didn’t  believe 
them.  His  insides  rumbled.  With  his 
hands  he  braced  himself  on  the  bench. 


16 


His  neck  muscles  tightened.  He  puckered 
up  his  lips.  He  wanted  to,  tried  to.  But 
he  couldn't  speak. 

Where  the  overhanging  maple  tree  cast 
shadows  on  the  park  bench,  the  old  man 
sat  the  following  afternoon.  The  sky  was 
thick  with  black  clouds,  and  a brisk  wind 
smacked  the  maple  tree,  hard.  A leaf  tore 
aw'ay  from  the  ancient  maple  tree,  idled 
down  into  the  old  man's  lap.  Its  russet 
color  had  faded.  It  was  weather-beaten, 
tattered,  as  time-worn  as  the  old  man 
himself. 

Voices  sliced  the  air,  raucous  voices. 
It  was  Marlene  and  this  time,  Emma. 

"Oooh,  so  ghastly,  ” wailed  Emma,  "To 
think  he  could  do  such  a thing  to  his 
wife.  It  was  his  fault,  you  know."  She 
dabbed  at  the  corner  of  her  eye  with  her 
baby  blue  hankie. 

Marlene  stamped  one  foot  indignantly. 
"It’s  utterly  contemptible!  What  a cad 
that  Murdock  fellow  is ! I never  did  trust 
him.” 

"Suspecting  his  own  wife,  can  you 
imagine  that?  Why  Carolyn  never  did 
anything  w'rong  in  her  whole  life.” 

"How  could  he  have  been  so  blind  as 
to  not  believe  her  when  she  said  it  was 
her  own  brother.” 

"And,  you  know,  when  the  brother 


showed  up  in  his  cute  sailor's  suit  this 
morning  at  that  morbid  place,  you  could 
see  the  tears  in  his  eyes  as  he  set  the  flow- 
ers down.” 

"Yes,  and  he  certainly  was  a brave  boy 
when  he  told  that  Murdock  fellow  the 
truth  about  her.” 

"Who  would  have  thought  Carolyn 
would  ever  jump  off  the  bridge?” 

"The  Connecticut  River  swallowed  her 
deep,  too.  Why  everyone  says  the  divers 
spent  hours  looking  before  they  Anally 
lound  her  body.” 

""So  tragic.  Carolyn  m.ust  have  really 
loved  tliat  man.” 

'"Isn"t  it  a shame  there  was  nobody  to 
save  her.” 

The  old  man  choked.  Bitterness  en- 
gulfed him.  It  knifed  him  worse  than  the 
breath  of  coming  winter  smacking  against 
the  old  maple  tree.  Forty-Ave  years  ago 
lie  too  had  believed  them.  There  hadn’t 
been  anybody  to  save  Delia  from  jump- 
ing either. 

Resigned,  the  old  man  drooped  over, 
scratched  around,  hunting  pebbles.  He 
liked  to  toss  them  in  the  Ashpond,  watch 
the  little  splashes,  and  then,  the  ripples 
growing  bigger,  bigger,  and  bigger — un- 
*:il  they  swelled  into  obli\  ion. 

Q 


Material  to  be  submitted  should  be  brought 
to  the  Quarterly  office  on  the  second  foot 
of  the  Student  Union. 


17 


Don  Peterson  stuck  the  key  into  the 
lock,  turned  it,  and  pushed  open  the  door 
to  room  126.  He  picked  up  his  two  suit- 
cases and  carried  them  inside.  He  stood 
and  looked  around.  This  was  to  be  his 
home  tor  the  next  colles>e  year.  It  looked 
rather  bare  and  unpromising.  He 
shrugged  and  heaved  one  of  the  suitcases 
up  on  the  bed  nearest  the  window.  Since 
he  was  first,  he  thought  that  he  might  as 
well  take  the  one  he  wanted. 

He  wondered  what  his  roommate 
would  be  like — a good  guy,  he  hoped. 
Well,  he’d  find  out  soon  enough — it  was 
almost  four  thirty.  His  roommate  should 
be  here  after  supper  anyway.  Don 
opened  the  .suitcase  on  the  bed  and  be- 
gan to  unpack. 

As  soon  as  he  had  finished  putting 
away  his  clothes,  he  made  his  bed.  Then 
he  turned  on  the  radio  and  lay  down.  He 
had  come  more  than  a hundred  miles  by 
bus  and  was  a little  tired.  The  radio 
blared  suddenly.  Someone  was  singing  a 
rock  and  roll  tune.  He  swore  softly  and 
turned  the  radio  down. 

"Is  that  all  they  listen  to  up  here 
too?”  he  thought. 

Turning  the  dial,  he  found  some 
swinging  jazz  and  went  back  to  the  bed. 

After  supper,  some  of  Don’s  new 
found  friends  knocked  on  his  door. 

"Hey,  let’s  go  downtown  for  a few 
beers.” 

He  joined  them  and  they  headed 
down  the  hill  to  the  main  street.  There 
were  a few  other  groups  heading  in  the 
same  direction.  They  were  going  to  have 
their  last  fling  before  classes  began. 

It  was  nearly  one  o’clock  when  they 
found  their  way  back  to  the  dormitory. 
They  were  so  drunk  that  they  could 
hardly  stand  up.  Finally,  Don  reached 
his  room  and  fumbled  for  the  key.  Be- 


ROO 

fore  he  could  use  it,  he  had  opened  the 
door.  Vaguely  he  remembered  locking  it 
before  he  had  gone  out.  His  roommate 
must  have  arrived.  He  reached  inside 
and  put  on  the  light.  There  was  no  one 
in  the  room,  but  his  bed  had  clothes 
piled  on  it  and  there  were  two  other 
suitcases  beside  his  own. 

"My  roommate  must  be  in,”  he  said 
out  loud.  "Wish  the  hell  he  wouldn’t 
leave  the  damned  door  unlocked.” 

He  laughed  at  himself  and  started  to 
throw  the  clothes  onto  the  other  bed. 

I hope  he  doesn’t  mind  a drunk 
for  a roommate.” 

A minute  later  he  was  undressed  and 
in  bed.  Before  he  was  settled  he  saw 
the  door  open  and  the  light  go  on. 

’’Who  the  hell  is  it  ...  friend  or 
foe?” 

A fuzzy  voice  answered  him,  "Hi 
there  . . . I’m  your  roommate.” 

He  was  tall  and  fat  with  a round, 
crew-cut  head.  Don  broke  out  laughing 
in  spite  of  himself.  He  jumped  out  of 
bed  and  lurched  toward  his  new  room- 
mate. 

"Welcome,  friend,”  he  said,  extend- 
ing his  hand.  The  handshake  was  limp 
and  clammy. 

"Don’t  mind  me — a gang  of  us  just  ^ 
came  back  from  town.” 

"You’ve  been  drinking  I suppose,” 
said  the  fat  one. 

"Yeah,  what’s  wrong  with  that?”  , 

"Is  that  all  you  boys  ever  think  of  up  | 
here?”  i 

"Yeah,  that  and  broads.” 

"It  was  the  same  thing  here  last  year 
— liquor  and  women.” 

"You  were  here  last  year?” 

"Yes.  I quit,  but  mother  made  me 


18 


IMATE 


by 

;huck 

ENTRY 


ll 

'l\ 


come  back  again.” 

"Why  did  you  quit?” 

"Oh  I just  couldn’t  get  along.” 
"Well,  don’t  worry  about  it.  Well 
^et  along  all  right,”  .said  Don  somewhat 
thickly. 

”1  sure  hope  so.  What’s  your  name 
by  the  way?” 

"Don  Peterson.” 

"Mine’s  Herbert — Herbert  Maxwell.” 
He  offered  his  hand  again. 

"Well,  g’night.  Herb.  I’m  beat,”  said 
Don  as  he  jumped  into  bed. 

"Goodnight,”  said  Herbert  and  he  be- 
gan to  tuck  Don’s  covers  around.  Don 
was  too  drunk  to  realize  what  was  hap- 
pening. 


Three  days  later  it  was  Friday.  At 
sec’en  thirty  Don  woke  up.  His  room- 
mate was  sitting  on  the  bed  and  shaking 
him  by  the  shoulders. 

"Come  on,  get  up.  Let’s  get  some- 
thing to  eat.” 

"Aw,  get  the  hell  off’a  me.  What 
time  is  it?”  He  rolled  over  and  tried  to 
get  back  to  sleep.  Again  he  was  grabbed 
by  the  shoulders  and  shaken. 

"Damnit,  will  you  cut  it  out.” 

"Okay,  okay,  take  it  easy,  I didn’t 
mean  anything.” 

He  began  to  straighten  the  covers  on 
- Don’s  bed. 

"Hey,  will  you  get  the  hell  out  of 
I here.” 

' "All  right.  I was  just  fixing  your  bed.” 

Whenever  Herbert  spoke  he  hissed  all 
his  "s”  sounds.  They  drove  Don  crazy. 

"Well,  I’ll  fix  it  when  I get  up.” 

At  nine  o’clock  Don  woke  up  again. 
He  showered  and  dressed  hurriedly. 
The  president  of  the  school  was  giving 


a welcoming  address  to  the  incoming 
freshmen. 

"I  heard  all  this  stuff  last  year,”  said 
Herbert.  "Let’s  stay  up  here  and  relax.” 
"I  don't  know,  dad  . . . we  re  sup- 
posed to  go.” 

"Don't  worry.  They  don’t  know  who 
goes  and  who  doesn’t.  It’s  just  a big 
pep  talk  anyway.  ” 

"Sure,”  said  Don.  "What  the  heck, 
I’ve  listened  to  enough  of  those  already. 
Besides,  I’ve  got  to  rest  up  for  tonight.” 
"What  are  you  doing  tonight?” 

"I’ve  got  a date  with  a girl  I met  in 
the  diner  last  night.” 

"You  can  have  your  girls.” 

"I’ll  take  them,”  said  Don. 

"There  are  other  things  you  know.” 
"Like  what?  Nothing  beats  a broad.” 
"Oh,  you  could  stay  in  for  a change.” 
"What?” 

"Girls  will  only  get  you  into  trouble. 
We  could  bring  some  liquor  if  you 
wanted.” 

He  walked  over  to  Don  and  sat  next 
to  him  on  the  bed. 

A few  minutes  later,  Don  came  out 
of  "126”  and  slammed  the  door  hard. 
A second  ago  he  had  been  blind  with 
rage,  but  now  he  was  only  mad  at  him- 
self for  losing  his  temper.  His  hand  was 
beginning  to  sting  as  blood  trickled 
from  the  cut  on  his  knuckles. 

From  the  room,  he  could  hear  Her- 
bert’s soft  sobbing.  Don  turned  and 
looked-  -then  headed  for  the  coun- 
selor’s room.  At  the  door  he  started  to 
knock,  but  then  hesitated. 


Just  after  supper,  one  of  the  veterans 
down  the  hall  asked  Don, 

"Say,  what  happened  to  your  room- 
mate? Did  he  go  home  or  something?” 
"Yeah.  His  old  lady  got  sick.” 

"Too  bad.” 


!9 


Here  are  three  stories 
by  'Ole  Dad'  designed  to 
please  and  entertain  you.  — Ed. 


Nobody  in  Search 
of  a Style 


by  OLE  DAD 


She  woke  up  with  a start. 

'1  must  have  slept  tor  an  eternity,’ 
The  afternoon  swim  always  made  her 
drowsy.  But  never  had  she  slept  so  long. 

Her  favorite  soldier  still  stood  guard, 
taller  than  the  rest,  greener  . . . her 
name  carved  on  his  bark  armor — CARO- 
LINE BETTS.  She  gazed  longingly  at 
her  sw'ift  moving  stream.  Her  caressing 
river  ...  no  one  really  knew  her.  Just 
her  river.  Her  river  that  sang  to  her. 
Her  river  that  kissed  her  forehead,  cooled 
her  hot  body  . . . flowed  into  her.  Her 
perpetual  youth.  Her  river  grew  white 
with  age  in  the  winter;  cold  . . indifferent 
. . . hibernating  Irom  her  like  a grouchy 
bear.  Her  river  that  came  back  to  her 
each  spring  , . . bubbling,  happy,  wild 
. . . sorry  for  its  hoary  indifference.  She 
forgave  him  when  he  sang  his  exhu- 
berent  song.  She  accepted  the  white 
water  lily  from  its  rushing,  eternal  love. 
She  picked  up  her  bathing  suit  from 
the  blueberry  bu.sh.  It  was  dry.  She  must 
have  lain  in  the  sun  several  hours. 

She  turned  and  waved  to  the  stream. 
She  watched  the  swells  of  water  answer 
her  . . . they  beckoned.  Her  body 
strained  toward  the  river.  'How  foolish, 
Em  fully  dressed.  She  looked  at  her 
clothes  . . . drenched.  A frown  etched 
her  forehead.  She  laughed,  headed  up 


the  path  toward  home.  The  river  wailed. 

A chick-a-dee  trilled  its  welcome  . . . 
cocked  its  head  to  the  side  with  a curious 
tilt.  She  cocked  hers  with  the 
.same  pert,  curious  tilt.  She  wrinkled  her 
nose  at  him.  "Hello,  little  ball  of  fluff.’’ 
"Oh  your  name  is  Mr.  Twittle  Bird.” 
She  curtsied  to  her  feathered  friend. 
"Glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Twittle.  " The 
chick-a-dee  flew  off. 

She  ran  up  the  path,  looking  to  the 
sky;  looking  at  the  statuesque  oaks 
stretching  their  mighty  arms  to  the  blue. 
The  water-blue  heavens  beckoned.  She 
flung  her  arms  skyward.  Laughed,  Ran 
onward. 

She  floated  on  air  past  old  Swenson’s 
farm.  He  was  working  nearby  in  his 
fields.  He  looked  to  the  path  where  she 
now'  stood.  She  w'aved  to  her  old  friend. 
He  did  not  answer.  She  w'aved,  "Hello, 
Mr.  Sw'enson."  She  waved  frantically, 
like  a marooned  person  signaling  a pass- 
ing ship.  He  'giddyapped’  his  steaming 
plow'  horse.  His  back  became  smaller. 

She  saw'  her  cottage  through  the  arch 
of  phantom  limbed  birches.  Its  deep  red 
warmed  her.  A massive  collie  lay  on  the 
front  porch.  Her  faithful  'Shep’  . . . 
wonderful  Shep  . . . loving  Shep.  Her 
foot  touched  the  porch  . . . she  extended 
her  hand,  waiting  for  the  friendly  way 


A 


...  a low  growl,  she  watched  the  hair 
bristle  like  a frightened  porcupine.  He 
backed  out  of  the  shadows  of  the  porch, 
into  the  sun. 

Her  clothes  were  soaked.  She  must 
change  them.  She  threw  her  dry  bathing 
suit  on  the  rail. 

A fire  roared  in  the  hearth.  Tom 
must  be  home.  "Tom  ...  oh  Tom  . . . 
TOM!”  'funny'  ...  The  newspaper  lay 
by  the  roaring  hearth.  "Tom  must  be 
home.” 

She  laughed — the  printer  made  a mis- 
take "Saturday,  August  14.”  She  knew  it 


was  the  13th;  her  21st  birthday. 

She  sat  by  the  fire  to  dry  her  dripping 
dress.  She  took  the  clinging  water  lily 
stem  from  around  her  neck  . . . rubbed 
the  soreness. 

She  unfolded  the  paper  all  the  way. 
Read  . . . "Caroline  Betts,  of  this  city, 
drowned  yesterday  in  the  Jay  River.” 

The  fire  painted  in  bright  reds  on  her 
white  canvas  face.  She  stared  into  the 
fire  . . . walked  closer  . . . where  was  its 
heat  .5  Screamed,  "WHERE  IS  YOUR 
HEAT!”  It  was  silent.  She  heard  the 
river’s  wail. 


Red  — Blue 


He  sat  in  the  back  of  the  booth,  in 
the  shadows;  drinking  vodka. 

'Mary's  Bar’  flashed  on  and  off  out- 
side; its  'Loreli'  beacon  painted  the 
snow  red  . . . blue.  The  street  was  dark. 

A ray  from  the  neon  sign  found  its 
way  into  the  bar,  caught  on  his  gold  tie 
pin,  making  it  wink  ...  on  . . . off;  red 
. . . blue. 

A taxi  driver  and  an  old  man  sat  at 
the  bar.  "Look  at  'em.”  The  taxi  driver 
nodded  toward  the  winking  tie  pin. 
"One  of  his  kind  comes  down  here  every 
once  in  a while.  It’s  a great  adventure 
for  them.  Why  that  suit  cost  more  than 
I spend  on  booze  in  a year.  Oh  my  good 
aching  arse,  I’d  like  to  tighten  that  tie 
till  his  eyes  bug  out  like  da  no  good, 
starin’  toad  dat  he  is.” 

"Easy  now;  ain’t  doin’  ya  no  harm. 
No  sense  gettin’  steamed  up.  Hell,  you’ll 
blow  a gasket  or  somethin’.”  The  old 


man  picked  his  nose.  Looked  at  it. 
Wiped  his  hand  under  his  seat. 

The  taxi  driver  swilled  his  beer.  "I 
just  ain’t  made  that  way;  to  let  some 
snob  come  and  stare  at  me  like  I was 
a pink  turd,  or  a germ  under  a miscras- 
cope,  or  somethin’.  I could  never  stand 
these  pretty  boys.” 

He  sat  in  the  shadows  of  the  booth. 
The  vodka  trickled  down  his  throat  . . . 
hit  his  stomach  with  a little  explosion, 
like  drops  of  water  bursting  on  a hot 
surface.  He  felt  warm.  Looked  down  the 
bar  past  a taxi  driver,  and  an  old  man 
picking  his  nose;  past  the  bartender  . . . 
to  the  red  dress. 

She  stood  still  at  the  edge  of  the  bar, 
staring  straight  ahead.  The  blinking  red 
and  blue  of  the  sign  caught  the  sequins 
of  her  dress,  red  . . . blue,  red  . . . blue; 
the  flashing  light  made  her  do  an  erotic 
dance  for  him.  She  stood  still. 


21 


She  could  see  him  in  the  mirror.  He 
wasn’t  from  around  here.  His  hair  was 
thick,  and  his  tace  handsome  . . . intelli- 
gent. His  expensive  blue  jacket  w'as  out 
perfect,  and  clung  to  his  broad  chest. 
The  gold  tie  pin  winked  at  her.  God 
he  was  handsome  . . . rich,  too.  She  had 
never  slept  with  a rich  man  ...  a young 
one,  anyhow.  Her  dress  felt  tight,  warm 
around  the  hips. 

It  continued  its  erotic  dance  in  the 
blinking  light. 

He  wondered  how  she  had  got  into  it. 
She  must  have  used  a shoehorn.  He 
caught  her  looking  at  him  in  the  mirror. 

"Bartender.” 

The  bartender  came  over.  "Yes  sir.” 

"A.sk  the  lady  if  she  would  like  a 
drink.” 

"Yes  sir.” 

The  bartender  went  over  to  the  danc- 
ing dress.  He  saw  their  lips  move  . . . 
her  nod.  She  turned  and  smiled  to  him. 
She  left  her  empty  glass  on  the  bar.  He 
watched  the  red  dress  wiggle  to  his  table 
. . . professionally;  the  juices  in  his 
mouth  were  bitter. 

She  went  to  sit  on  his  side  of  the 
booth.  He  pointed  her  to  the  other.  He 
did  not  get  up.  She  smiled; — "Hi.” 

"You’re  a big  girl.” 

"Five-ten  in  my  tootsies;  ya  not  so 
small  ya  self.” 

The  bad  teeth  like  dirty  silver  oyster 
shells  . . . how  could  a woman  let  her 
teeth  go  . . . 'not  so  smart  your.self,  huh.’ 
. . . he  saw  the  great  purple  volcanoes 
of  acne,  some  erupting,  leaving  pussy 
lava  at  their  mouths  . . . .scaling  the 
cheap  powder.  His  eyes  were  intense  on 
hc-r. 

She  saw  the  dark,  serious  eyes  on  her 


. . . searching,  admiring,  she  thought;  he 
.seemed  hypnotized.  She  had  never  slept 
with  a rich  man  ...  a young  one,  any- 
how. She  felt  his  eyes  carress  her  . . . 
she  wondered  what  it  would  be  like  to 
be  married  to  him.  His  chest  was  so 
broad.  "Yes,  Fm  a big  girl,  and  I like 
big  men.” 

"You  like  big  men,  huh?  Well  who 
the  hell  are  you?  I'll  tell  you.  You’re  a 
big  sick  whore.  A big  sick  whore.” 

She  watched  the  handsome,  sharp 
mouth  move  . . . little  beads  formed  on 
the  clean-shaven,  blue,  upper  lip  . . . ” 
"A  big,  sick  whore.  ” Her  eyes  were  swell- 
ing. She  hoped  there  would  be  no  tears 
. . . she  hoped  for  tears;  she  felt  the 
.sand  instead.  The  blinking  tie  pin 
mocked  her;  burned  her  eyes.  She  got 
up.  Walked  to  the  door.  Her  hands  over 
her  face. 

He  sneered.  Watched  the  big  animal 
body  leave  . . . .saw  the  big  .sec]uinned 
buttocks  disappear.  He  did  not  taste  the 
vodka.  The  fire  was  out. 

The  taxi  driver  nudged  the  old  man. 
"Didya  .see  that?  That  pansy  arse  . . . 
too  good  for  Sally.  I otta  let  him  have 
one  where  it  would  do  the  most  good.” 
The  two  watched  him  edge  oft  the 
seat.  The  legs  stretched  trying  to  reach 
the  floor.  "My  good  God,  he’s  a dwarf!” 

They  watched  him  waddle  across  the 
bar  room  . . . the  fanny  going  from  side 
to  side  like  a duck’s. 

He  looked  to  the  corner  of  the  bar 
hoping  to  see  the  sensual  sequin  dance. 
The  empty'  glass  was  still  there. 

They  watched  him  walk  to  the  toilet 
door. 

He  rested  his  hand  on  the  panel  . . . 
looked  up  . . . MEN. 


Q 


22 


The  Miracle  Fruit 


He  looked  like  a giant  bluebird  walk- 
ing through  the  park,  the  black  visor  of 
his  police  cap  forming  a shiny  black 
beak.  He  fed  on  the  gaiety,  on  the 
moodiness,  of  the  throng  ...  its  free- 
dom. 

For  the  children  ...  a tousle  of  the 
hair,  a caressing  kick  on  the  rump,  a 
lift  up  to  the  bubbling  water  fountains, 
a penny  for  candy.  For  strangers  ...  a 
friendly  touch  of  the  visor.  For  the 
owners  of  the  young  hands  that  were 
lifted  swifty  from  swelling  youthful 
breasts  when  he  came  by  . . . a look  the 
other  way.  For  his  familiar  friends,  the 
Muldoons,  O’Rileys  and  Shaunessys, 
that  stood  around  like  great  heaps  of 
rags,  arguing  politics  ...  a jibe  ...  he 
would  put  on  his  serious  Latin  scowl; 
cut  into  their  conversation  with,  "Your 
Mayor  Curly  is  a wop;  yup,  a wop;  fly- 
ing under  false  colors.  Tole  me  so  him- 
self one  day  when  I picked  him  up  on 
a vagrancy  charge."  He  fed  on  their 
friendly  jeers,  the  snatch  he  heard  as  he 
walked  away — "Now  there’s  a good 
chap,  that  Martino,  even  if  he  is  a wop 
. . . and  he,  a cop  too."  He  watched  the 
swan  boats,  set  in  the  water  like  giant, 
gliding  water  lilies.  Their  serenity. 

He  caught  the  conversation  of  the 
giant  picnic  in  bits;  concentrating  on 
none.  Enjoying  the  panorama.  "Williams 
won’t  hit  .300  this  year.  He’ll  be  lucky 
to  play.  Stevens  is  ripe.”  "So  I says  to 
dis  guy,  da  kar  ain’t  much  ta  look  at. 
But  it’s  like  a woman;  just  give  it  plenty 
ta  eat  and  drink;  baby  it,  and  give  it 
every  secon’  of  ya  time  . . . you’ll  make 
out  allright  wid  it.”  "No  you  can’t  have 
a dime  for  an  ice  cream,  you  just  had 
a hotdog.  Now  stop  that  bawling.  John, 


will  you  please  speak  to  your  son!” 
"Please  give  them  back  to  me.  Tommy, 
mother  would  just  kill  me  it  I came 
home  without  them  on  ...  besides  I 
might  catch  cold."  "Ike’s  the  best  presi- 
dent we’ve  ever  had  . . . they  say  he’s 
in  the  low  eighties  now.”  "So  da  ole 
lady  tole  me  to  get  the  hell  outta  the 
house  and  don’t  ..."  The  stream  of  the 
crowd  buoyed  him,  carried  him  along, 
refreshing  him.  He  shooed  a dog  along 
that  was  poised  on  three  legs,  about  to 
take  its  revenge  on  a young  plant.  He 
smiled  as  it  went  oft,  tail  between  its 
legs,  wondering  at  its  frustration,  its 
raggedy  ears  flapping  like  giant  butter- 
fly wings.  The  squirrels  played  tag 
among  the  forest  of  trees  and  legs. 

The  crowd  was  like  a great  tankard 
of  ale.  Full  to  the  brim,  overflowing  the 
edge  . . . foamy,  smooth,  intoxicating. 
He  quaffed  it  in  huge,  healthy  gulps. 
The  baseball  landed  at  his  feet.  His 
shoes  needed  shining.  He  picked  it  up; 
tossed  it  to  the  face  full  of  freckles. 
"Thanks.”  the  freckle  tossed  it  to  a 
bird’s  nest  of  tousled  cornsilk  hair. 

"This  is  Boston,  ” he  thought, 
"America  . . . the  land  of  the  free  . . . 
My  God  Martino,  what  a soft  hearted 
slob  you're  turning  into  . . . next  thing 
I'll  be  doin'  is  singin'  the  'Ole  Rugged 
Cross'  and  ringin’  a bell  in  Scollay 
Square  ...”  A leaf  parachuted  from  a 
branch  overhead.  Brushed  his  face. 

"Officer!  Officer!”  The  voice  woke 
him.  He  watched  the  hornrimmed 
glasses  waddle  toward  him  like  an  ex- 
cited old  hen.  She  stopped  her  frantic 
clucking,  to  get  her  story  straight  . . . 
"They’ve  captured  a Communist,  a 
Communist!  I was  right  there. 


23 


They've  got  him.  They'\e  got  him 
right  now.  " He  followed  her.  She 

pointed  toward  the  underground  men’s 
room.  He  heard  the  hum  of  a collection 
of  angry  buzzz  saws.  He  speeded  down 
the  stairs.  Put  his  hand  to  his  holster. 
Pushed  through  the  group.  He  was  hot 
trom  the  run  . . . the  anger. 

There  he  stood.  Bristling  like  a ban- 
tam rooster;  foreign  and  colroful  in  his 
wrapping  of  rags  . . . small  and  delicate 
his  large  eyes  glaring  out  from 
under  a battered  cap,  at  the  line  of 
toilet  booths  that  stood  there  like  so 
many  bank  vaults,  their  silver  pay  slots 
shining  like  great  protective  locks.  The 
banty  quivered  with  suppressed  feeling 
...  he  was  hynotized,  staring  . . . still. 
The  crowd  closed  in  like  black  ants,  on 
the  angry,  wounded,  helpless  red  ant.  To 
be  their  feast. 

Martino's  authoritative  voice  cut 
through  the  buzzing,  "What's  da  scoop 
here?" 

The  banty  rooster  started.  Swayed 
slightly  like  a small  plant  . . . was 
motionless.  Still.  Then  erupted  with  an 
angry  lava.  "Disa  free  country  . . . disa 
tree  country,  wherea  mana  hasta  pay  for 


to  crap.  Dis  free  country  ...  a man  has 
to  pay  tor  to  crap." 

Martino  sent  the  crowd  out  with  a 
wave  of  his  night  stick — they  disappeared 
before  the  oak  wand.  Looked  at  the 
raggedy  banty.  Relaxed  his  hand  off  his 
holster.  Smiled.  Dug  into  his  pocket; 
and  found  a nickel  in  its  blue  tightness. 
He  worked  the  nickel  out,  and  put  it 
into  the  slot  of  the  closest  toilet.  The 
banty  went  in.  "Tanka  you.  Tanka  you 
very  much.” 

Martino  went  out.  Up  the  stairs.  A 
group  of  children  came  bouncing  by, 
like  so  many  rubber  balls,  their  angelic, 
rose  bud  lips  singing  enthusiastially  . . . 
"Beans,  beans,  the  miracle  fruit  . . . the 
more  you  eat,  the  more  you  toot  . . . the 
more  you  toot  the  better  you  feel  . . . 
and  then  you’re  ready  for  another  meal 
...  of  beans,  beans  the  miracle  fruit 
..."  Their  voices  faded.  The  children 
became  colorful  Rorschach  ink  blots  on 
the  green  blotter  of  grass. 

Martino  smiled.  Quaffed  the  sup  in 
greedy,  healthy  gulps.  Roared  with 
laughter  . . . "Beans” 

Q 


SOFTBALL  SUPPLIES  GOLF  BALLS 

TENNIS  RACKETS  and  BALLS 

A.  J.  HASTINGS 

NEWSDEALER  & STATIONER 
AMHERST,  MASSACHUSETTS 


24 


The  Age  of  Maturity 

by  RICHARD  P.  McLEOD 


an  essay  for  today's  world 
about  today's  world  . . . . 


Deer,  dogs  and  little  boys — together 
with  other  relatively  objectionable  ele- 
ments of  society — seem  to  have  evolved 
an  instinctive  method  ot  settling  their 
differences.  This  is  by  violence,  personal 
and  specific,  whether  it  be  by  tooth, 
fang,  fist  or  horn.  For  them,  this  is  sen- 
sible— their  actions  can  be  guided  only 
by  instinct. 

Philosophers  tell  us  that  Man  is  the 
highest  form  of  life  presently  inhabiting 
the  earth.  They  define  "Man”  as  a vital, 
sentient,  rational  being;  he  is  distin- 
guished most  by  his  rationality — the 
ability  to  reason  and  will  freely.  It  might 
be  interesting  to  note  the  practical  effects 
of  this  definition  in  the  governmental 
institutions  created  by  man. 

Even  a fleeting  glance  at  the  history 
of  international  affairs,  and  including 
the  present  situation,  would  reveal  quite 
clearly  that  our  civilization  has  most 
always  been  guided  by  the  logic,  reason, 
and  conscience  inherent  in  Man.  Seldom 
have  passion,  emotion,  and  selfishness 
been  allowed  to  lower  Man  from  his 
lofty  pinnacle  in  the  animal  kingdom. 

The  solution  to  past  international  dis- 
agreements has  cilivays  come  as  a result 
of  unselfish,  logical  reasoning.  After  a 
brief  period  of  use,  this  means  is  fol- 


lowed by  the  obviously  rational  ultimate 
solution — War.  Surely  at  is  a coincidence 
that  this  ultimate  means  of  violence  is 
also  the  instinctive  .solution  grasped  by 
dogs,  deer  and  little  boys. 

However,  perhaps  it  is  understandable 
that  in  a time  of  exciting  human  conflict 
Man  should  forget  that  he  alone  is  the 
proud  possessor  of  an  attribute  beyond 
the  attainment  of  inferior  creatures.  For 
Man,  as  opposed  to  the  dog,  deer  and 
little  boy,  has  this  attribute:  beyond  the 
being  of  a stone,  the  vitality  of  a peony, 
the  sentience  of  Old  Rover,  and  the  un- 
realized potential  of  Dennis  the  Menace, 
Man  IS  supposed  the  enjoy  "sweet  rea- 
son." 

It  was  by  the  use  of  this  reasoning 
power  that  man  also  developed  moral 
precepts  throug.h  his  search  for  religion. 
A tew  centuries  back,  the  w'orld  is  said 
to  have  accepted  the  concepts  of  Chris- 
tianity. Before  and  since  that  time  many 
forms  of  religion  have  evolved;  but 
almost  without  exception  they  all  profess 
belief  in  a God  and  follow  the  Ten 
Commandments — or  a co-terminous  ex- 
pression popularly  known  as  the 
"Golden  Rule”:  "Do  unto  others  as  you 
would  have  them  do  unto  you.” 

Today,  both  ,‘:ides  of  the  Iron  Curtain 


25 


are  striving  for  the  fullest  application  of 
these  concepts — to  do  unto  the  Soviet 
LInion  as  it  would  do  unto  the  United 
States,  and  vice  versa.  Rather  than  apply 
all  of  their  facilities  toward  a reasonable 
.solution  to  present  world  difficulties, 
modern  men  have  adopted  a bitter  name- 
calling contest  based  on  the  theme  of 
"whatever  is  mine  is  bigger  and  better 
than  yours."  Usually  attributed  to  little 
boys,  this  attitude  has  a high  sounding 
"mature"  name — "Cold  War”  That  it 
has  not  developed  into  the  usual  "Hot 
War"  is  merely  because  of  the  deterrent 
effect  found  in  nuclear  warfare. 

Thus  we  find  a civilization  of  men — 
the  highest  form  of  animal  life — leading 
the  life  of  the  lowlist,  in  constant  fear 
for  his  life.  Governmental  institutions 
created  by  these  men  reflect  this  fear, 
and  none  is  satisfactory.  Communism  in 
Russia  is  not  Marxist  Communism,  and 
as  a totalitarian  system,  thrives  on  the 
tear  of  the  masses.  The  Democratic 
countries,  on  the  opposing  side,  may  be 


compared  to  the  frightened  doe  that 
stands  rigidly  still  to  avoid  being  seen, 
and  thus  avoid  the  battle  that  she  knows 
would  mean  death. 

Considering  this  situation,  it  may  be 
as  some  claim,  that  the  two  factions 
divided  by  the  Iron  Curtin  will  never 
be  able  to  co-exist.  Yet  the  very  deter- 
rent that  has  continued  the  "Cold  War” 
for  over  a decade  prevents  the  histori- 
cal irrational  .solution-w'ar;  with  the 
advent  of  nuclear  warfare,  a limited  or 
"humanitarian  war”  probably  woud  be 
impossible — de  facto,  War  is  impossible. 
Therefore,  we  have  a seemingly  insolu- 
able  situation  with  an  irrepressable  force 
meeting  an  immovable  object.  Nuclear 
War  vs.  co-existance. 

But  suppose  the  little  boys  could 
grow  up — suppose  they  co/dd  realize 
that  they  have  reached  the  age  of  World 
Maturity,  in  the  nuclear  age — and  sur- 
vive self-extermination  by  the  unimagin- 
able forces  of  nuclear  warfare.  Someone 
found  peaceful  uses  for  gunpowder. 


My  Spring 

Spring  is  known  as  "Spirit  of  New" 
Though  Winter  was  christened  "bleak 
season,” 

By  a poet  who  must  have  felt  more 
Than  he  told,  when,  with  little  reason. 
He  listed  it  lowest  of  four; 

Why  say  it  is  bleak,  with  despair? 

Why  don't  others  see  as  I do. 

The  beauty  it  is,  an  experience  rare? 
Spring  brings  death  with  its  "Spirit  of 
New” ! 

Steve  Doyle 


26 


A Strange  Port 

The  fog  swirls  round  about  me 
Clutching  me  with  icy  fingers 
Soothing  yet  cruel. 

Soothing  to  my  face; 

Cruel  to  my  straining  eyes  groping 
Yet  not  seeing  through  the  feathery  mist. 
Groping  for  what.^  A familiar  face 
A friendly  face;  a laughing,  painted  face 
To  soothe  my  loneliness. 

I peer  in  lighted  window's 

Feeling  the  warmth  inside 

But  not  entering.  Too  many  strange  faces 

Unfriendly  faces.  Faces  with  other 

Thoughts  than  kindess  to  a sailor. 

So  I turn  back  to  the  ship 
Feeling  my  way  through  the  clinging  fog. 
It  alone  knows  my  sorrow  and  it  alone 
Comforts  me. 

My  emptiness  enfolded  within  its 
Surrounding  arms  of  gray. 


FOR  CREATIVE  WRITING  . . . 

Read  the  QUARTERLY 
FOR  CREATIVE  PRINTING  . . . 

Call 

HAMILTON  I.  NEWELL.  INC. 

Printers  to  the  Quarterly 

534  Main  Street  • Tel.  AL  3-3434 


27 


The  Old  Hand 

by  FRANK  SOUSA 


He  saw  her  across  the  school  yard. 
The  red  of  her  hair  was  his  own  little 
sun.  A sun  he  had  tucked  away  inside 
his  chest,  that  warmed  his  insides  . . . 
a sun  that  made  his  forehead  break  out 
in  a warm  sweat  whenever  he  talked 
to  her  ...  a sun  that  made  him  stare 
at  his  shoes  whenever  she  spoke  to  him. 
He  walked  toward  her. 

She  looked  toward  him  coming  across 
the  yard.  He  was  cute.  But  so  old. 
The  girls  said  he  was  almost  six- 
teen. His  hair  was  so  dark,  long  on  the 
sides,  short  on  top.  His  levi’s  were  tight. 
She  felt  herself  sweat  along  the  bottom 
of  her  new  brassiere.  She  wondered  why 
she  had  to  wear  it.  It  was  so  uncomfort- 
able. Mothers  were  funny.  Real  panics. 
She  saw  him  again.  He  looked  like  Gre- 
gory Peck  in  that  wonderful  movie  . . 
what  was  it  ? Why  did  he  wear  such  tight 
trousers.^  The  principal  said  boys 
shouldn’t  wear  dungarees  ...  or  the 
girls  shorts.  That’s  funny.  She  looked  at 
the  tall,  dark  boy  out  of  the  corner  of 
her  eyes. 

"Hi,  Mary  Ann,”  he  said. 

"Oh,  hello,  Johnnie;  I didn’t  see 
you.” 

"Ah  . . . rah,  ah  . . . could  I walk  a 
ways  with  you?” 

"Certainly  you  may.  I wanted  to  thank 
you  for  taking  me  to  the  dance  last 
Saturday,  anyway.” 

"It  was  nothin’,”  he  said,  kicking  a 
small  can  ahead  of  him. 

"It  was  too,  something,”  she  said. 

"Could  I get  you  a coke?  Or  some- 
thin’ ?” 


"Mother  said  I shouldn’t  let  men 
spend  money  on  me.” 

He  watched  her  little  rosebud  lips 
move,  "Men”,  she  had  said.  She  thinks 
I'm  a man.  His  chest  felt  a little  big  for 
his  shirt.  He  thrust  his  chest  out  further, 
like  a pouting  fantail  pigeon,  hoping  he 
would  pop  a button  . . . wonder  what 
she  would  say  if  she  saw  how  broad  his 
chest  was?  Hair  on  it  too;  fifteen  of 
them.  How  did  she  say  it?  ...  "Men 
shouldn’t  spend  money  on  me.”  Men! 
What  men  have  been  spending  money 
on  her?  He  felt  his  chest  empty  out  like 
a pricked  baloon. 

She  saw  his  deflated  look  . . . poor 
boy  . . . "Well,  I guess  it’s  all  right  for 
you  to  buy  me  a coke,  just  this  once, 
anyhow.” 

He  smiled.  Felt  around  in  his  pocket 
. . . only  one  nickel  there.  He  saw  the 
drug  store  . . . the  drug  store  cowboys, 
holding  up  the  walls.  'Hope  they  don't 
think  I’m  a sissy,’  he  thought. 

One  of  the  drugstore  cowboys  had  a 
longer  keychain  . . . twirled  it  in  slower, 
more  undulating,  more  wordly  circles. 
He  stared  at  Mary  Ann's  little,  pointed 
breast  . . . poked  a fellow  cowboy  in  the 
ribs  . . . stared  back  to  Mary  Ann  . . . 
"True  or  false?”  They  all  laughed. 

Mary  Ann  saw  the  boys  looking  at 
her  . . . they  must  like  her  pretty  pink 
dress.  They  were  all  .smiling  at  her. 

Johnnie  let  his  collar  get  too  tight 
for  him.  Saw  her  looking  at  the 
keyswingers — ' hafta  get  one  of  those 
chains.’  He  opened  the  door.  They  went 
in. 


28 


They  went  to  a booth  and  sat  dow'n 
in  the  well  carved  walnut  booth,  with 
the  small  colorful  tune  selector  on  the 
wall  with  the  flip  card  selector.  The 
table  was  cluttered  with  empty  and  half 
empty  coke  glasses. 

He  watched  the  waitress  come  toward 
their  table.  The  dirty  apron.  The  boys 
had  told  him  stories  about  her.  How 
could  they?  . . . she  must  be  old  . . . 
must  be  over  thirty.  He  wanted  to  live 
to  be  twenty-nine  after  that  you  get  old 
and  bald  and  ugly  and  sick.  How  could 
they  do  things  like  they  said  they  did? 
They  would  never  be  able  to  marry  after 


doing  stuff  like  that. 

"What'll  it  be,  kids?"  the  waitress 
asked. 

"Two  cokes,"  he  said  . . . remembered 
the  nickel  . . . "Better  make  it  one  . . . 
I’m  not  thirsty.” 

Mary  Ann  looked  at  his  hair  ...  so 
long  on  the  sides;  short  on  top.  He  w'as 
so  cute.  "What  do  you  call  that  kind  of 
haircut?"  she  asked. 

"A  D.A.” 

"A  D.A.;  w'hat  docs  that  stand  for?” 

"Oh  1 can't  tell  you,”  he  said. 

"Oh,  come  on.” 

"Nah,  I can’t  tell  you.”  He  looked 


29 


down  at  the  table,  then  looked  to  the 
floor. 

"Come  on,  Johnnie  tell  me.” 

"No.” 

"Pretty  please,  with  sugar  on  it.” 

"No,”  he  said. 

"Well  if  you’re  going  to  be  .so  stub- 
born Mr.  Morell,  you  can  just  find 
someone  else  to  take  to  your  old  dances.” 

"Well,  "he  stamered,  "D.A.  stands 
for  . . . stands  for,  duck’s  ass;  cause  the 
hair  is  pushed  together  in  the  back  and 
looks  . . .” 

"Johnnie!  you  shouldn’t  talk  that 
way.”  She  felt  the  heat  spots  on  her 
cheeks;  like  her  girl  friends  eyes  burned 
there.  He  had  no  right  to  talk  to  her 
that  way.  She  was  angry. 

The  w'aitress  put  the  coke  on  the 
table. 

"Could  I have  a drink  of  water?  ” he 
asked. 

Mary  Ann  looked  at  the  coke.  She 
wouldn’t  drink  it  ...  she’d  show  him 
. . . She  saw  the  fine  chipped  ice,  the 
cold  little  beads  on  the  glass;  the  sun 
coming  through  the  window  magnified 
the  coke’s  cold  invitation.  Her  anger 
cooled  as  the  coke  trickled  down  her 
throat. 

The  red  straws  looked  like  the  color- 
ful legs  of  a stork  in  her  coke;  the  stork 
legs  must  be  walking  toward  shore,  as 
her  coke  pond  got  shallower  as  she 
sipped.  She  giggled  at  her  imagination. 
There  was  nothing  but  ice  in  the  bottom 
of  her  glass;  She  hoped  her  stork  didn't 
get  cold  feet.  She  giggled  again. 

He  .saw'  her  giggle  . . . looked  in  the 
mirror  to  sec  if  he  had  anythhing  on  his 
face.  Saw  nothing.  Drank  the  water  the 
waitress  had  left;  got  up  to  get  another 
glass  at  the  counter.  He  filled  his  owm 
glass  . . . took  a toothpick. 

"Another  pine  tree  float?”  the  wait- 


ress laughed. 

"Goddam,  lady,  you’re  as  funny  as  a 
fart  in  church,’  he  thought  to  himself. 
He  smiled  at  her-sorry  for  his  thoughts. 

Mary  Ann  was  bending  straws  when 
he  got  back  to  the  table. 

He  bent  a straw  too.  Made  a braclet 
out  of  his  straw. 

"For  me,  "She  asked. 

He  gave  her  the  straw  braclet.  Her 
palm  was  so  soft;  he  wondered  whether 
she  would  ever  let  him  hold  her  hand 
. . . he  felt  guilty  again. 

"Can  I walk  you  the  rest  of  the  way 
home?”  He  looked  the  floor,  shuffled 
his  feet. 

"Yes’  you  may,  ” she  said.  She  was 
glad  he  asked.  'There  goes  Sally  Meyers 
. . . pretending  she  doesn’t  see  me  with 
him.’  She  saw  more  of  her  friends  sitting 
at  the  counter.  She  took  his  hand  when 
they  got  up.  'They’ll  see  this,’  she 
thought.  Marveling  at  her  daring. 

He  felt  her  take  his  hand  ...  he 
hoped  she  wasn’t  one  of  'those’  kind 
of  girls. 

He  opened  the  door  for  her  with  out 
letting  go  of  her  hand.  The  cow'boys 
were  gone.  They  turned  and  walked 
along  the  sidewalk,  there  hands  locked, 
swinging  gently  in  time  with  their  walk 
ing. 

He  looked  over  whenever  she  was 
looking  away.  Her  softness  made  hii 
knees  weak  . . . she  looked  like  a cute 
little  puppy;  he  w'anted  to  cuddle  her, 
take  her  in  his  arms,  kiss  her  ...  he 
kicked  a Hoodsie  cup  into  the  gutter. 
She  still  wasn’t  looking  at  him  . . . her 
nose  turned  up,  pert  and  sensitive,  like 
a small  bunnie’s;  her  neck  was  delicate 
and  long  ...  he  glanced  swiftly  over  the 
small  swell  of  a breast,  to  the  tiny  waist. 
The  yellowness  of  her  dress,  her  straw- 
berry hair  . . . they  reminded  him  of  a 


30 


delicious  strawberry  icecream  cone  . . . 
cool,  refreshing,  delicious  . . . unattain- 
able; His  nickle  was  gone. 

He  knew  he  was  looking  at  her.  She 
tilted  her  head  at  different  pert  angles 
. . . turned  quickly  to  catch  him  staring. 

He  looked  at  his  shoes. 

"I  think  I'll  be  starting  at  short  stop 
tomorrow  . . . would  you  like  to  go  to 
the  game?” 

"I'd  love  to.  You’re  awful  nice,”  she 
said. 

"No  I’m  not.” 

"Oh,  yes  you  are,”  she  said. 

"No  I’m  not.  I got  kicked  out  of 
Lashway’s  class  yesterday.” 

"Oh  I hate  him  anyway,”  he  said. 
"He’s  dirty.” 

"What  do  you  mean?”  he  asked. 

"Oh  I can’t  tell,”  she  said. 

"Why?” 

"Because.” 

"Because  why?”  he  asked 

"Just  because.” 

"I  told  you  what  a D.A.  was.” 

"All  right,”  she  said,  "I’ll  tell  you; 
but  it’s  your  fault  . . . he’s  always  open.” 

"Open  ?” 

"Yes,  you  know',”  she  said. 

"No  I don’t,”  he  looked  at  her. 

She  looked  at  the  ground. 

"You  know  ...  he  alw'ays  open  in  the 
front,  w'hen  he  lectures.” 

"Oh,  he  said,  "he  lectures  with  his 
fly  open.” 

"Oh!  Johnnie  Morell,  I hate  you.” 
She  took  her  hand  out  of  his,  and 
worked  her  ro.sebud  lips  into  tight  lines. 
She  walked  stiffly  and  erect  like  a suf- 
fering Joan  of  Ark.  She  thought  she 
made  a romantic  and  persecuted  picture. 

The  cut  into  the  field  in  silence;  he 
followed  her,  a little  behind  and  to  the 
right.  The  golden  hay  wrippled  under 
the  gentle  wind.  Bent  under  their  feet; 


straightened  up,  and  sw'ayed  again.  They 
left  a thin  single  trail.  He  walked  a little 
faster  and  the  trail  through  the  hay  be- 
came double. 

"Would  you  like  to  go  to  the 
Booster’s  dance  again  this  w'eekend?  ” he 
asked.  She  didn’t  answ'er.  "I  like  you  an 
awful  lot,  Mary  Ann.” 

Her  cross  was  too  heavy  to  carry  any 
further. 

"Mary  Ann?  I said  I like  you  an  aw'- 
ful  lot.” 

She  felt  herself  floating;  she  was  made 
out  of  fine  down,  the  wdnd  carrying  her 
on  its  carressing  current  . . . w'ay  up  high 
. . . dizzily,  free  . . . heavenly  . . . like 
the  movies.  'This  darn  ok  bra,  it’s  so 
tight,’  she  thought.  'I  wish  the  girls 
could  have  heard  him.  He’s  so  cute. 

He  wrung  his  hands  . . . tried  to  put 
them  in  his  front  pockets  . . . his  pockets 
w'ere  too  tight  ...  he  looked  at  them, 
hopeless;  they  w'ere  traitors.  He  picked 
his  nose  . . . looked  swiftly  to  see  if  she 
had  seen  him. 

She  w'as  w'atching  her  feet;  "I  like 
you,  too.” 

He  looked  at  his  feet  . . . gonna  have 
to  start  shining  my  shoes. 

The  sun  and  the  love;  the  w'ind  and 
the  closeness;  the  curiorsity  and  inno- 
cense;  the  tw'o  young  people. 

"Would  you  wear  my  baseball 
sw'cater?  ” he  asked,  flipping  his  jacknife 
in  the  air  nervously. 

"Yes,  I’d  like  that  ...  I like  you  an 
awful  lot.  More  than  anyone  in  the 
world. 

He  looked  at  his  feet.  A small  red 
ant  was  carrying  off  the  body  of  a large 
black  one.  He  opened  the  blade  of  his 
knife.  Closed  it. 

They  stopped  under  a small  tree  in 
the  field;  where  the  gold  hay  was 
darker  under  its  leafy  umbrella;  and  he 


31 


looked  into  her  eyes  . . . looked  away  to 
the  large  tree  beside  them  ...  his  fore- 
head felt  clammy.  He  looked  back  to 
her.  Her  eyes  were  so  blue  ...  so  very 
blue  they  left  little  pale  blue  halos 
around  her  eyes,  making  them  appear 
larger,  more  deer-like  then  they  were. 
He  felt  weak  . . . hoped  his  stomach 
wouldn’t  growl.  Moved  his  head  a little 
closer  to  her.  Their  heads  were  almost 
touching.  The  wind  stirred  the  leaves 
slightly  . . . played  with  her  hair.  A 
leave  fell. 

His  eyes  were  so  dark.  He's  so  cute. 
Will  he  try  to  kiss  me  . . . he's  so  close 
. . . my  first  kiss  . . . what  do  you  do 
with  the  nose?  she  wondered  . . . what 
if  they  hit?  How  do  the  lips  meet  them? 
She  felt  flustered.  He  was  so  close. 

She  saw'  his  head  come  closer,  his  eyes 
half  closed  . . . closer  . . . 'w'hat  about 
the  nose?’  she  w'anted  to  ask  him  . . . 
closer  'I  know'  w'e'rc  going  to  bang  noses 
. . . closer  ...  at  the  last  moment  he 
tilted  his  head  a little  to  the  side  . . . 
their  noses  passed  safely  by,  she  felt  his 
lips.  'How  very  w'onderful’  she  thought, 
'marvelous,  w'e  didn't  have  a collision  of 
noses.’  It  was  easy  . . . nice  too.  He  was 
so  smart  . . . he’s  beautiful.  So  w'arm. 
"Oh,  Johnnie.’’ 

His  head  swam  in  a turbulent  current, 
detached  from  his  body,  getting  caught 
in  little  eddies  . , . w'hipped  into  the 
stream  again,  bobbing  . . . rising;  back 
into  the  little  whirlpools,  tos.sed  out  into 
the  wild  current  . . . faster  . . . faster. 
'My  God,  I have  to  pee,’  he  thought.  He 
started  w'orking  his  knees  together,  and 
apart;  together  again.  "You’re  beautiful, 
beautiful,  . . . beautiful,  ” he  chanted  in 
drugged,  cadenced  rhythm.  He  craned 
forward  so  his  body  w’ould  not  touch 
her  as  they  kissed  . . he  didn’t  want 
her  to  think  he  w'as  one  of  'those’  kind 


of  guys.  Church  bells  sang  tw'o,  in  the 
distance,  throaty  and  in  a low  voice. 

They  sat  under  the  small  tree  looking 
at  each  other.  He  eyes  w'ere  so  blue  . . . 
he  felt  W'arm;  took  out  his  knife,  opened 
it,  ...  closed  it. 

"I’m  your  girl  Johnnie  . . . forever.’’ 

He  looked  at  his  knife. 

"Are  you  going  to  carve  my  name  in 
your  desk,  like  the  other  boys”  she 
asked. 

"What  other  guys  carved  your  name 
in  their  desks?’’  he  asked  like  a pouting 
child. 

"Don’t  be  angry,  silly,”  she  said,  "no 
one  ...  1 mean  carve  my  name,  like 
other  guys  carve  the  names  of  their 
girls.’ 

"Oh,  ” he  said  sheepishly,  "I’d  kill 
myself  if  you  had  another  boy.” 

"You’re  the  first  boy  that  ever  kissed 
me.  Am  I the  only  girl?” 

He  looked  at  his  feet  ...  to  his  knife 
...  to  the  big  tree  . . . back  to  his  feet. 
"Yes.” 

"Promise  you’ll  carve  my  name  in 
your  desk  . . . Mary  Ann  King  . . . pro- 
mise.” 

"I  promise,  "he  said,  "We’d  better 
get  going’.”  He  looked  at  his  knife. 

"Oh,  you  won’t  do  it  . . . carve  it  on 
that  big  tree  over  there  ...  go  ahead 
. . . carve  Johnnie  Morell  likes  . . . "she 
looked  at  her  feet  . . . "loves  Mary  Ann 
King.” 

"No  I can't,  ” he  .said. 

She  laughed  joyously;  "You  silly, 
bashful  boy.”  She  pulled  him  towards 
the  big  tree.  He  was  like  a stubborn 
puppy  on  a lease;  he  dug  his  feet  in. 
She  got  him  to  the  tree.  "Right  here,” 
she  said,  pointing  to  the  broad  surface 
of  bark  . . . she  looked  quickly  back  at 
the  bark  ...  ,i  carving  on  it  mocked 
back  JOHNNIE  MORELL  LIKES 


32 


MARIA  CONTINO.  She  looked  at  him. 
He  looked  like  the  puppy  who  had  been 
caught  eating  the  family  roast.  She  let 
his  hand  go  with  a start.  He  almost 
tumbled  over  backwards. 

It  began  with  a slight  murmur  of  her 
body,  like  a leaf  barely  fluttering  in  a 
whisper  of  a breeze;  turned  to  a tremor 
...  a quake  . . . her  body  racked  with 
sobs.  Her  red  hair  tumbled  from  her 
shoulders  to  her  throat  as  he  sobbed. 
She  calmed  down  a little;  enough  to 
sob  out,  "My  mother  told  me  not  to  go 
out  with  older  men.” 

He  looked  at  her.  Put  his  hand  out  to 
touch  her  head.  Drew  it  back.  Tried  to 
put  his  hands  in  his  pockets  . . . they 


wouldn't  fit  . . . rolled  the  knife  in  his 
hands  . . . looked  at  it.  Tossed  it  high 
and  far  in  the  air.  The  sun  caught  it, 
making  it  smirk  an  evil  silver  grin  at 
him.  He  walked  away;  head  down,  tail 
between  his  legs  ...  a storm  battered, 
raggedy  sheep  dog.  He  looked  back.  She 
was  still  crying.  He  walked. 

"Johnnie.” 

He  heard  the  call,  faintly;  he  turned 
and  faced  her,  from  halfway  up  the  hill. 

Her  lips  moved  . . . "You’ll  still  call 
won’t  you.^”  she  asked. 

He  nodded.  Ran  up  the  hill  ...  he 
could  not  face  her;  besides  he  still  had 
to  relieve  himself. 

Q 


The  Beautiful  Snow 

The  beautiful  snow,  the  beautiful  snow 
Filling  the  sky  and  earth  below 
Over  the  rooftops,  over  the  street 
Over  the  heads  of  people  we  meet 

Skimming,  floating,  swimming  along 
Beautiful  snow  that  can  do  no  wrong 
Flying  to  kiss  a fair  lady’s  cheek 
Fooling  in  fun  like  a frolicsome  freak 

With  many  a swirl  it  covers  the  ground 
Masking  with  white  all  that’s  around 
Making  so  pure  the  city  and  street 
A bride’s-veil  white,  virgin  and  sweet 

Beautiful  snow  from  heaven  above 
Light  as  an  angel,  white  as  a dove 
Alive  is  the  town,  its  heart  all  aglow 
To  welcome  the  coming  of  beautiful 
snow 

By  W.  C.  Vinal 


33 


ON  THE  EQUALITY  OF  HISTORY 
AND  PHYSICS  AND  THE  FUTURE 

VALDIS  AUGSTKALNS 


From  the  early  l600',s  when  Francis 
Bacon  first  preached  the  method  ot  in- 
duction to  the  present  day,  science  has 
had  an  increasingly  important  effect  on 
the  minds  of  all  people.  The  claim 
today  that  science  has  not  influenced 
one’s  beliefs  is  to  voice  pure  humbug. 
In  our  civilization  it  is  impossible  to 
escape  the  effects  of  science.  As  one 
learns  more  about  the  sciences  he  must 
modify  his  old  and  accept  new  beliefs 
and,  as  in  my  case,  develop  new  beliefs 
to  agree  with  newly  learned  facts.  The 
physics  1 have  learned  up  here  started  me 
thinking  and  w'hen  the  chain  of  thought 
had  ended  I had  equated  on  a theoretic 
level  the  tw'o  seemingly  very  different 
sciences  of  history  and  physics. 

Some  might  agree  that  history  is  not 
a science,  that  it  is  too  inexact.  They 
would  point  out  that  historians  can't 
agree  even  on  the  causes  of  such  simple, 
clear-cut  happenings  as  the  Protestant  Re- 
formation. However  this  argument  is 
not  valid.  It  can  be  used  just  as  well  to 
disprove  that  astronomy  is  a science. 
After  all,  don’t  astronomers  (and  geolo- 
gists and  many  others)  disagree  about 
how  the  earth  was  formed } Certainly 
the  formation  of  the  earth  is  a much 
bigger  thing  to  disagree  about  than  the 
Reformation.  I have  come  to  believe 
firmly  that  if  historians  could  obtain  all 
the  data  they  wish  to  obtain,  they  would 
make  history  into  as  exact  a science  as 
physics.  Admitedly  this  is  a big  if  with 
built-in  practical  limitations,  but  because 
of  the  improved  communications  of  this 
age  these  limitations  are  not  as  signifi- 


cant as  they  have  been  in  the  past  and 
can  be  expected  to  become  even  less 
signficant  as  communications  continue  to 
improve.  Hence  my  reasoning  wall  prob- 
ably become  more  valid  as  time  ad- 
vances. 

Someone  once  said,  "Devious  indeed 
are  the  paths  of  logic.”  How  right  he 
is!  The  beginnings  of  my  equating  of 
history  and  physics  came  in  a chemistry 
lecture.  We  were  being  introduced  to 
Niels  Bohr’s  theory  of  planetary  elec- 
trons.. According  to  our  professor  the 
theory  explained  adequately  all  chemical 
and  physical  properties  of  atoms.  Bohr 
said  that  electrons  travel  in  planetary 
orbits  around  the  nucleus  of  the  atom  in 
any  of  eighteen  (and  later  more  were 
discovered)  energy  levels.  He  even 
calculated  the  distance  from  the  nucleus 
to  each  of  the  energy  levels  and  the 
speed  with  which  the  electrons  traveled. 
Then  after  explaining  these  things  to  us 
the  profes.sor  said  that  although  the 
theory  explained  everything  it  was  none- 
theless false,  and  he  introduced  us  to  the 
term,  quctnlnni  mechanics,  and  lectured 
on  the  subject  for  a short  time.  The 
quantum  mechanicist  says,  explained  our 
professor,  that  the  electron  does  not 
travel  in  the  way  suggested  by  Bohr.  It 
can  travel  faster  or  slower  and  closer  to 
or  further  from  the  nucleus  than  Bohr 
claimed.  The  probability  is  great  that  at 
any  given  time  the  electron  is  conform- 
ing to  Bohr’s  pattern  and  in  the  end 
the  variations  from  the  pattern  offset 
each  other  and  cancel  each  other  out. 
The  distinction  the  quantum  mechanicist 


makes  might  seem  to  be  a very  fine  point 
indeed.  Bohr's  pattern  is  a statistical 
average  ot  the  electron’s  behaviour,  so 
what's  the  difiference?  The  difference  is 
that  the  behaviour  is  a statistical  average 
and  not  a cut  and  dried  pattern.  The 
laws  of  physics  are  no  patterns  anymore; 
they  arc  now  recognized  for  the  statisti- 
cal averages  they  always  were. 

The  slight  exposure  to  quantum 
mechanics  1 received  in  the  chemistry 
lecture  aroused  my  interest.  I tried  to  do 
a bit  of  extracurricular  reading  on  the 
subject,  but  it  was  mostly  past  me.  After 
I came  to  a place  where  Dirac  proved  (I 
think)  that  an  electron  could  be  in  two 
places  at  the  same  time,  I gave  up.  How- 
ever the  main  impression  I received  from 
my  reading  remains.  Randomness  is  the 
main  feature  of  the  universe  and  all  our 
scientific  laws  are  statistical  averages. 
Deviations  from  the  average  are  of  in- 
tinitesmally  small  probability,  but  this 
probability  exists.  Also,  because  all 
scientific  laws  are  averages,  the  behaviour 
of  individual  particles  is  completely  un- 
predictable. The  best  possible  example 
of  this  fact  can  be  obtained  by  a study 
of  radioactive  decomposition.  Suppose 
you  are  looking  at  a sample  of  a radio- 
active isotope  whose  half  life  is  ten 
minutes.  At  the  end  of  that  time  one 
half  of  the  substance  that  was  left  after 
composed  into  a more  stable  substance 
by  means  of  some  sort  of  radioactive 
emissions.  After  another  ten  minutes  one 
half  of  the  substance  that  was  left  after 
the  first  ten  minutes  will  have  decom- 
posed. Let  us  say  that  after  two  days 
there  is  no  significant  radioactivity  left 
in  the  sample.  It  seems  simple,  this 
radioactive  decompostion.  But  it  it?  Let's 
consider  a single  atom.  It  is  impossible  to 
tell  whether  it  will  be  the  first  or  the 
last  atom  to  break  up  The  probability 


is  % that  it  will  break  up  in  the  first 
twenty  minutes,  but  it  doesn't  have  to. 
At  the  end  of  the  two  days,  when  there 
is  no  significant  radioactivity  left  in  the 
sample,  it  may  still  not  have  decom- 
posed. Indvidual  atoms  are  not  predict- 
able but  whole  conglamorations  of  them 
most  certainly  are. 

Now  let's  turn  to  history.  There  are 
some  historians  who  say  history  is  not 
a science;  it  is  a "discipline."  These 
men,  like  pre-Baconian  natural  philo- 
•sophers,  are  pessimists.  They  base  their 
belief  on  the  assumption  that  all  the 
facts  will  never  be  available.  There  is 
no  reason  why  a converse  assumption 
cannot  be  made.  After  all,  science 
marches  on,  progress  is  made,  new  in- 
formation gathering  devices  are  sure  to 
be  constructed.  Maybe  that  old  dream  of 
all  science — fiction  writers,  the  time 
machine,  can  be  made.  Then  there’d  be 
no  worries  at  all.  Besides  this  rather  im- 
probable happening,  there  are  other 
indications  that  make  me  think  that 
history  is  bound  to  become  a more  ac- 
curate sciecne. 

History  and  I don't  think  anyone  will 
disagree,  is  basically  people,  people  act- 
ing together,  creating  trends,  concepts, 
etc.  Like  electrons  most  people  move  in 
certain  general  orbits;  that  is,  their 
general  behaviour  can  pretty  well  be  pre- 
dicted. Of  course  their  exact  behaviour 
is  quite  often  maddeningly  random,  but 
groups  of  people  can  be  treated  statisti- 
cally— the  larger  the  group  the  more  ac- 
curate the  results.  Back  in  the  sixteenth 
Century  Dutch  insurance  companies 
first  started  treating  groups  of  people 
statistically.  Today  an  insurance  execu- 
tive can  look  at  an  actuary  chart  and  pre- 
dict with  signifitant  accuracy  how  many 
forty-seven  year  old,  bald-headed,  pot- 
bellied men  in  grey  flannel  suits  will  die 


35 


in  the  next  year.  He  cdu't  say  that  one 
pdrtic//lity  individual  who  meets  these 
specifications  will  go,  but  he  can  say 
how  many  of  the  total  number  of  these 
men  will  pass  on.  A mathematician 
could  easily  figure  out.  within  the  limits 
imposed  by  the  human  lifetime,  the  half 
life  of  these  gentlemen.  Admittedly  in- 
surance charts  are  a long  way  from  a 
total  application  of  statistics  to  history, 
but  undoubtedly  much  more  progress 
will  be  made  on  this  problem  in  the 
future.  There  will  of  course  be  difficul- 
ties; the  human  ecpiation  is  a wildly 
variable  one,  but  even  the  most  illogical- 
seeming  equation  usually  has  some  ac- 
ceptable solution.  There  can  be  no  doubt 
that  at  some  future  date  it  will  be  pos- 
sible to  predict  accurately  the  broad  out- 
lines of  what  is  to  come.  When  this  is 
possible,  history  will  have  reached  the 
le\el  of  todays  physics.  Trends  and  the 
properties  of  great  mas.ses  of  individuals 
wdl  be  predictable;  but  the  indi\iduals 
themselves  except  in  some  special  over- 
simplified cases,  will  in  both  sciences 
remain  as  enigmatic  as  before. 


The  main  feature  of  the  new  history 
will  be  its  emphasis  on  the  future.  It 
will  study  the  past  and  the  present  also, 
but  not  to  such  an  extent  as  is  done 
today.  The  future  has  always  terrified 
mankind.  This  need  no  longer  be  true. 
E\en  today  some  of  what  is  to  come  can 
be  forseen.  The  world's  increasing  popu- 
lation is  today  its  most  important  his- 
torical feature.  There  is  just  so  much 
space  available  on  the  old  planet.  Three 
solutions  to  the  problem  exist:  one,  keep 
the  population  from  expanding;  two,  re- 
duce the  population  as  it  expands;  and 
thre  increase  the  living  space.  The  first 
solution,  human  beings  beings  w'hat  they 
are,  is  clearly  impossible;  the  second  war, 
is  becoming  less  popular;  and  the  third 
is  the  course  of  least  resistance,  the 
course  Western  Civilization  has  been 
following  for  h\e  hundred  years.  Today 
it  is  as  valid  a solution  as  it  ever  was. 
That  is  w'hy,  even  if  a war  does  come, 
the  artificial  satellites  will  keep  on  going 
up  and  science  will  remain  as  important 
as  it  has  been  since  Western  Civilization 
first  began  to  expand. 


Death 


O Death,  good  wandering  worker,  on- 
w'ard  creep 

Throughout  this  crawling  mire  of  hu- 
man sin. 

Creep  onward.  Death,  among  the  .souls 
which  reek 

Of  hatred,  \ ice  and  greed;  into  this  din 

Be  cast  and  as  a slave  of  God  fulfill 

His  every  wish.  When  bid,  untwine  the 
arms 

Of  love;  into  the  breast  of  man  instill 

The  sadness  of  fleeting  life.  And  calm 


The  fears  of  those  loving  God  by  plac- 
ing them 

Before  His  feet.  Great  workman,  Come, 
Obey 

God's  joyful  laws.  Thou  art  in  truth  a 
gem 

Evincing  light, — not  darknes  and  decay. 

God's  w’ealth  is  gained  when  life  of  man 
is  spent 

For  Life,  mere  plaything,  God  has  only 
lent. 

Sandra  Sait  to 


36 


J.  S.  WESTCOTT  & SON 

Movers 

North  Amherst 

NEW  & USED  QUALITY  PAPERBACKS 

TEXTBOOKS  STATIONERY 

BAUCOM'S 

TEXTBOOK 

EXCHANGE 

108  N.  Pleasant  St.  — AL  3-3068  — Amherst 


— Headquarters  For  The  University — 


RUSSELL'S  PACKAGE  STORE 


Mobilgas  • Mobiloil  • Mobilubrication 

COLLEGE  TOWN  SERVICE  CENTRE 


DICK  HAMILTON,  Proprietor 


LIKE  A 
CIGARETTE 
SHOULD! . 


WINSTON 
TASTES  GOOD! 


R.  J.  RLrNOLDb  lObACCO  CO  . W1 NSTON -SALEM  . N.  C 


For  bright,  c/ear  flavor— 

switch  to  WINSTON 

Wherever  you  go,  folks  go  for  Winston ! 

You  will,  too.  You’ll  like  the  full,  rich  '^‘‘•'’'*''  01(5'^' 
flavor  of  fine  tobacco.  And  you’ll  like 
Winston’s  exclusive  filter,  too— the  pure, 
snow-white  filter  in  the  smart,  cork- 
smooth  tip.  It’s  a great  cigarette  in 
every  way 


Now  available 
in  crush-proof  box,  too! 


I 

I 


I 


Smoke  WINSTON  Americas  best-selling,  best-tasting  filter  cigarette!